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SONGS  OF  TOIL 

BY 

CARMEN  SYLVA,    QUEEN    OF   RUMANIA 

TRANSLATED  BY 

JOHN    ELIOT    BOWEN 
With   an   Introductory   Sketch 

FOURTH  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1887,  by  The  Indhpendkwt. 
Copyright,  1888,  by  John  Eliot  Bow«m. 


CONTENTS. 


Introductory  Sketch 

The  Scissors-Grinder's  Song 

(£d)eerenfc^leiferUeb 

SJie^^erlteb 

The  Butcher's  Song 

gtmmermannSlieb 

The  Carpenter's  Song 

^apicrinai^er     . 

The  Paper-Maker  . 

HJIuUertteb  . 

The  Miller's  Song 

^eim  (yiitterrt    . 

Fodder-Time 

SScim  SRolfen     . 

IMilking-Time 

Slin  ?<flugc 

The  Plowing  . 

5m  illce     . 

In  Clover 

SuH    .        .        ■ 

July         .        .         . 

Ser  Sämann     . 

The  Sower 

Scfiifferlieb 

The  Boatman's  Song 

jyifi^er 

The  Fisherman 

Seim  Spinnen  . 

Spinning  Song 


PAGE 

5 
37 
38 
40 
41 
42 
43 
46 
47 
4S 
49 
52 
53 
56 
57 

S-- 

5') 
60 
61 
62 
63 
6.'- 
65 
6S 
69 
70 


2043323 


CO.VTENTS. 


PAGE 

U^rmacfierlicb 84 

The  Clockmaker's  Song 85 

-Trr  ?;-nrtenrciber 88 

The  Color-Grinder 89 

Sädcrlieb 92 

The  Baker's  Song  . 93 

Scircrlicb 96 

The  Rope-Maker's  Song 97 

^■cipferlieb 9S 

The  Potter's  Song 99 

ÜKofaif 102 

Mosaic 103 

Sapcjierer 104 

The  Upholsterer 105 

SScrcrLbev loS 

The  Gilder 109 

3immermaler 112 

The  Painter 113 

2er  Sanbbrieftragcr 116 

The  Country  Letter-Carrier 117 

2'cr  Sanbtt-dger 120 

The  Sand-Carrier 121 

2^ie  Sd;cuerfrau 126 

The  Charwoman     .        , 127 

iTcr  58[äfer 130 

The  Glass-Blower 131 

2lm  Sßetftu^t 134 

The  Weaver 135 

1:tamantenf(f)Ieifer 136 

The  Diamond-Polisher ...         .....  137 

Ser  ©cigcnmoc^er 138 

The  Violin-Maker 139 

Steittfcöneiber 142 

The  Stone-Cutter 143 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 


In  writing  of  Carmen  Sylva,  Queen  of  Rumania, 
one  does  not  know  whether  to  call  her  poet-queen  or 
queen-poet.  Doubtless  her  royal  position  has  had 
something  to  do  with  her  fame  as  poet,  and  certainly 
her  poetry  has  directed  the  world's  eye  to  that  far-off 
throne  in  southern  Europe.  She  would  not,  then,  be 
what  she  is,  we  are  forced  to  conclude,  were  she  not 
both  poet  and  queen.  Queens  have  always  been  in- 
teresting in  literature,  even  if  posing  only  as  an  inspira- 
tion. They  have  almost  invariably  been  "fair  women." 
Pictures  and  poems  arise  as  we  name  them  —  Esther  of 
Persia,  Dido  of  Carthage,  Cleopatra  of  Egypt,  Mary  of 
Scotland.  The  last  is  said  even  to  have  written  poems 
herself;  she  certainly  wrote  a  celebrated  Latin  hymn, 
but  the  poems  —  presumably  not  addressed  to  her  cousin 
Elizabeth,  else  there  would  be  no  lack  of  fervor  in  them 
—  do  not  find  their  place  in  literature.  In  general, 
royalty  has  inspired  rather  than  produced  literature. 
But  with  the  present  age  this  has  changed.  Applicable 
to  monarchs  as  to  men  is  the  statement  that  "now-a- 
days  every  one  writes  books,"  and  no  truer  in  one  case 
than  in  the  other  is  the  wicked  end  of  the  saying,  "  but 

5 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


only  fools  publish  them."  The  Queen  of  England  pub- 
lishes her  journals  ;  one  of  her  daughters  writes  articles 
for  the  magazines ;  the  King  of  Sweden  prints  sagas  in 
verse ;  the  Crown  Prince  of  Austria  publishes  tales  of 
travel  and  adventure ;  and  even  the  Pope  of  Rome  pub- 
lishes to  the  world  a  collection  of  poems.  But  with  all 
these  the  production  of  what  may  be  kindly  called 
literature,  is  pastime;  to  the  Queen  of  Rumania,  on 
the  other  hand,  her  literary  work  is  life.  How  and 
why  this  is  so  may  be  learned  from  a  brief  glance  at 
her  career. 

Like  many  of  the  heroines  of  fiction,  Elizabeth,  Prin- 
cess of  Wied  and  Queen  of  Rumania,  was  born  of  an 
ancient  and  honorable  family.  So  far  back  as  1093, 
says  Natalie  Freiin  von  Stackelberg,  in  her  life  of 
Carmen  Sylva,*  the  counts  of  Wied  were  a  mighty 
race  of  rulers.  Their  possessions  on  the  right  and  left 
banks  of  the  Rhine  stretched  as  far  as  Eifel  and  the 
Westerwald.  Their  most  ancient  residence  was  the 
castle  of  Upper- Altwied ;  afterward  for  generations  the 
family  lived  in  the  castle  of  Lower-Altwied;  and  finally 
in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  castle  of 
Neuwied  was  built,  and  in  this  the  Princess  Elizabeth 
was  born.  The  town  of  Neuwied  is  situated  in  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  sections  of  the  Rhine  country.  It  is 
a  short  distance  below  Coblenz  and  on  the  same  bank 


*  2lu5   (iarwert  ©gloa'ö   Seben.     $8on   9Jatalic   ^reiin  Dort 
'Stadelberg. 


INTR  OD  UC  TOR  Y  SKE  TCH. 


as  Ehrenbreitstein.  The  castle  commands  a  most 
picturesque  view  of  the  cities  and  villages  and  mountain 
spurs  that  follow  the  winding  course  of  the  river. 

With  the  fortunes  of  the  family  of  Wied  we  are  not 
specially  concerned.  The  counts  played  their  parts  in 
the  conflicts  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  and  in  the  Seven  Years'  War.  In  1784  the 
countship  of  Wied  was  raised  by  Joseph  II.  to  the 
dignity  of  a  principality,  but  at  the  Congress  of  Vienna 
the  semi-independence  which  the  house  had  enjoyed, 
was  taken  away  and  the  greater  part  of  its  possessions 
was  placed  under  Prussian  dominion. 

It  is  of  interest,  however,  to  note  that  Elizabeth's 
family  has  been,  to  a  considerable  extent,  a  family  of 
students,  scholars,  and  even  writers.  The  first  distin- 
guished scholar  of  the  family  was  Maximilian,  brother 
of  Prince  August  and  great-uncle  of  Elizabeth.  His 
life  was  devoted  to  the  study  of  natural  history.  During 
the  first  half  of  this  century  he  travelled  extensively  in 
South  and  North  America.  His  books  descriptive  of 
his  journeys  have  been  of  value  in  their  relation  to  the 
science  of  natural  history,  and  his  collection  of  speci- 
mens of  mammalia,  birds,  fishes,  reptiles,  etc.,  has  been 
purchased  since  his  death  by  the  American  Museum  of 
Natural  History  in  Central  Park,  New  York,  where  it 
is  still  exhibited  under  the  name  of  "  The  Prince  Max- 
imilian of  Wied  Collection."  Maximilian's  sister, 
Louise,  had  special  talents  in  music,  painting  and  poetry. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Her  "  Songs  of  the  Solitary,"  though  perhaps  over- 
pious,  have  a  poetic  quality.  Prince  Hermann,  the 
father  of  Elizabeth,  was  a  philosopher.  The  titles  of 
his  books  and  pamphlets  are  profound.  For  many 
years  an  invalid,  he  devoted  himself  assiduously  to  study 
and  speculation,  finding  his  sole  recreation  in  the  his- 
torical works  of  Mommsen,  Häusser  and  Ranke,  and  in 
the  occasional  use  of  the  brush,  for  which  he  had  a 
natural  talent.  Elizabeth's  mother,  Maria,  brought 
from  the  house  of  Nassau  the  qualities  of  heart  that,  in 
her  child,  were  to  find  their  complement  in  the  qualities 
of  mind  bequeathed  by  the  father.  Of  such  stock 
and  of  such  a  union  was  Elizabeth,  Princess  of  Wied, 
born. 

The  year  of  her  birth  was  1843,  the  month  December, 
and  the  day  29.  Her  childhood  was  just  what  would 
be  expected  from  her  inheritances,  and  the  method, 
manner  and  circumstances  of  life  at  Neuwied  and 
Monrepos,  the  family's  summer-house.  Her  bringing- 
up  was  superintended  by  her  mother,  acting  under  t'.;e 
advice  of  the  Prince,  her  husband,  and  assisted  by  ihj 
same  governess  who  had  had  charge  of  her  own  educa- 
tion. This  governess  had  a  rare  fund  of  fairy  tales  and 
legends  stored  away  in  her  memory,  which  were  doubt- 
less the  first  stimulant  applied  to  the  young  Elizabeth's 
imaginative  powers.  She  was  an  original  child.  And 
yet  in  many  respects  she  was  like  all  children.  She  had 
a   passion   for   dolls,   which   she    called   her    children. 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 


"When  she  first  met  strangers  her  invariable  question 
was,  *'  Have  you  also  children?"  We  learn  in  the  poem 
entitled  „5ifrf)er/'  page — ,  which  is  tenderly  and  pathet- 
ically autobiographic,  that  this  question  of  the  child  is 
still  the  question  of  the  Queen.  Stories  of  the  little 
princess's  generosity  are  told  by  Natalie  von  Stackel- 
berg,  to  whom  I  must  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  for 
all  anecdotes  not  otherwise  credited.  When  the  merest 
child  she  was  filled  with  compassion  for  the  poor.  One 
day  her  mother  gave  her  a  quantity  of  new  woolen  cloth, 
greatly  to  Elizabeth's  delight,  "for  now,"  she  said, 
"I  can  give  all  my  dresses  to  the  poor."  "But,"  said 
the  mother,  "would  it  not  be  better  to  give  the  cloth 
to  the  poor,  to  whom  your  white  dresses  would  be  of 
little  use.?"  The  princess,  who  was  by  no  means  a 
goody-goody  child,  and  had  a  will  of  her  owti,  com- 
prehended, nevertheless,  her  mother's  question,  and 
with  her  little  brother  at  once  set  forth  to  carry  the 
cloth  to  a  poor  woman. 

Many  of  the  stories  of  Elizabeth's  youthful  years 
have  become  household  tales,  and  scarcely  need  to  be 
told  again.  All  who  know  anything  of  her  childhood 
will  remember  how  she  played  truant,  not  by  staying 
away  from  school,  but  by  going  to  school  one  day.  She 
had  always,  during  the  beautiful  summer-days  at 
Monrepos,  had  a  great  desire  to  attend  school  with  the 
village  children.  Permission  had  been  denied  her  until 
one  morning  she  rushed  in  upon  her  mother,  who  was 


SOI^GS  OF  TOIL. 


absorbed  in  household  duties,  and  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  go  to  school  with  the  farm  children.  Without  com- 
prehending the  question  the  mother  nodded  her  con- 
sent, and  away  ran  the  little  princess.  She  arrived  at 
the  school  while  the  singing  lesson  was  in  progress  and 
at  once  took  her  place  beside  the  other  children,  greatly 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  school-master,  who  was 
flattered  by  her  presence.  He  had  no  mark  of  reproof 
for  her  when  she  raised  her  voice  to  such  a  pitch  as  to 
drown  the  voices  of  all  the  other  children.  Not  so, 
however,  with  the  child  who  stood  next  to  her,  and  who 
thought  it  unbecoming  to  sing  so  loud.  This  youngster 
clapped  her  hand  over  the  princess's  mouth  by  way  of 
rebuke,  and  to  show  that  the  other  children,  if  they  did 
not  have  equal  voices,  had  at  least  equal  rights.  In  the 
meantime  the  absence  of  the  princess  had  been  noticed 
at  the  palace,  and  after  a  vain  search  the  servants  were 
put  on  the  right  track  and  found  and  carried  the  child 
home  in  disgrace.  This  story  ought  to  end  here ;  for 
we  are  sorry  to  learn  that  the  democratic  enthusiasm  of 
the  child  w-as  punished  by  imprisonment  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day. 

Elizabeth's  interest  in  poetry  was  excited  at  an  ex- 
tremely early  age.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  she  felt 
the  influence  of  the  poets  with  whom,  in  company  with 
her  parents,  she  frequently  came  in  contact.  During  a 
brief  residence  in  Bonn  they  were  visited  almost  daily 
by  Ernst  Moritz  Arndt,  the  poet,  who,  with  the  eight- 


INTR  OD  UC  TOR  Y  SKE  TCH. 


year-old  princess  on  his  knee,  would  recite  his  patriotic 
poems  till  the  child's  cheek  flushed  and  her  heart  beat 
with  excitement.  Among  their  other  frequent  visitors 
were  Lessing,  Bunsen,  Neukomm  and  others  distin- 
guished in  literature.  But  not  only  was  she  privileged 
to  hear  poetry;  she  was  compelled  to  learn  it.  Every 
Sunday  morning  she  and  her  little  brothers  were  ob- 
liged to  recite  poems  to  their  father  and  mother.  By 
the  time  the  princess  was  nine  years  old,  she  could 
commit  a  poem  of  almost  any  length  to  memory,  pro- 
vided only  it  were  not  in  the  Alexandrine  meter,  which, 
was  to  her  an  abomination.  At  this  time  also  she 
began  to  wTite  occasional  verses  herself.  When 
scarcely  fourteen  she  had  plotted  dramas  and  dreadful 
tragedies.  The  more  horrible  these  latter  were,  the  better 
she  liked  them.  Though  she  read  early  and  late  only 
the  most  beautiful  poems,  her  fantasy  produced  only 
the  most  terrible  ideas.  This  constant  contrast  in  ab- 
sorption and  production  had  its  effect  upon  her  moods, 
which  were  alternately  gay  and  melancholy.  "I  cannot 
help  myself,"  she  was  wont  to  confess  mentally;  "I 
cannot  be  gentle ;  I  must  rage.  I  would  thank  these 
mortals  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  if  they  only  had 
patience  with  me.  It  would  not  be  so  bad  if  I  could 
but  open  the  safet}--valve  and  let  the  poetry  come." 
When,  later  in  life,  there  was  cause  for  the  deepest  woe 
and  melancholy,  this  safety-valve  opened  of  itself. 
At  fifteen   years  of   age  Elizabeth  settled  down  to 


SOJVGS  OF  TOIL. 


Study  in  earnest.  Her  governess  was  replaced  by  a 
tutor,  who  was  an  excellent  English  scholar.  All  the 
lessons  were  conducted  in  English.  She  studied  Eng- 
lish history,  arithmetic  and  geometry,  and  translated 
into  English,  Italian  and  Latin,  reading  in  the  latter 
Horace,  Ovid  and  a  part  of  Cicero.  She  had  lessons 
in  natural  philosophy  from  the  father  of  an  intimate 
friend.  A  Parisienne  instructed  her  in  French,  and  read 
with  her  in  the  evening  the  chronicles  and  memoirs  of 
Froissart,  Joinville,  St.  Simon  and  others,  and  the 
dramas  of  Moliere,  Racine  and  Corneille.  To  her 
mother  she  read  aloud  the  German  classics  and  Schil- 
ler's "Thirty- Years'  War."  Lessing's  „9latl)ait  ber 
SSeij'e"  she  read  to  her  again  and  again.  In  one  sum- 
mer she  read  Becker's  History  of  the  World  from  first 
page  to  last,  and  did  the  same  with  Gibbon's  history. 
She  read  daily  three  newspapers,  and  devoted  herself  to 
politics.  She  studied  with  interest  and  enthusiasm,  but 
as  she  said  herself,  she  would  throw  history  or  gram- 
mar, for  which  she  had  a  passion,  into  the  corner  if  she 
could  put  her  hand  upon  a  tale  or  legend.  She  came 
upon  Elizabeth  Wetherell's  "The  Wide,  Wide  World," 
and  read  it  time  after  tim.e  with  devouring  interest. 
Like  many  another  school-girl,  she  buried  the  book 
under  her  Ovid  translations,  and  stole  from  Duty  in 
order  that  she  might  give  to  Pleasure.  No  one  will  be- 
grudge her  the  mild  excitement  when  he  learns  that 
until  her  nineteenth  year  she  was  never  allowed  to  look 


INTROD UCTOR  Y  SKE  TCH. 


into  a  novel  of  any  kind.  Even  then  she  was  only  per- 
mitted to  read  "Ivanhoe"  and  Freytag's  „®oü  unb 
Stäben"  in  the  evening  after  her  cup  of  tea.  This  was 
a  rather  serious  life  for  a  girl  of  Elizabeth's  tempera- 
ment, but  fortunately  she  was  able  to  find  poetic  diver- 
sion even  in  the  midst  of  such  tasks.  She  found  it  in 
the  life  at  Monrepos.  This  beautiful  summer  home 
is  high  upon  one  of  the  hills  composing  the  range  of 
the  Westerwald  Mountains.  It  commands  a  more 
extensive  view  than  the  castle  at  Neuwied,  and  at  the 
6ame  time  it  includes  within  its  horizon  all  the  points 
of  beauty  that  can  be  seen  from  the  castle  in  the  town, 
upon  which  it  looks  down.  The  glory  of  Monrepos 
iies  in  the  forest  that  stretches  away  from  it  in  mile 
after  mile  of  grateful  shade.  "  Here  the  princess  Eliza- 
beth was  in  her  element,"  says  her  biographer;  "here 
were  forest  and  freedom."  She  roamed  careless  and 
gay,  with  Nature  for  her  only  companion.  She  listened 
to  the  voices  of  Nature,  to  the  singing  of  the  birds,  to 
the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  to  the  rippling  of  the  Wied- 
bach,  and  to  the  moaning  of  the  tree-tops;  and  she 
whispered  the  secrets  of  her  heart  to  her  voiceful  and 
sympathetic  companion.  She  whispered  in  song,  the  first 
songs  of  a  young  poet-life.  She  roamed  and  sang,  and 
the  people  called  her  the  Forest-Rose  Princess.  From 
her  sixteenth  year  she  began  to  copy  her  poems  regularly 
in  a  book,  whose  existence  she  confessed  to  no  one. 
She  wrote  simply  and  naturally,  with  never  a  rule  to 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


follow  but  the  notes  of  a  bird  or  the  beatings  of  her 
heart.  Until  she  was  thirty  years  old  she  knew  ab- 
solutely nothing  of  the  art  of  poetical  composition. 

She  was  not  happy  away  from  her  forest  home. 
"When  seventeen,  she  made  a  visit  to  Berlin,  and  she 
filled  her  journal  with  home-sick  verses  and  songs  of 
melancholy.  She  longed  for  the  breath  of  the  forest 
and  the  sight  of  the  Rhine.  But  this  visit  is  remem- 
bered less  for  these  youthful  verses  than  for  an  acci- 
dent or  incident  that  befell  the  Princess.  It  was 
nothing  serious,  nothing  more  than  falling  down  the 
stairs  of  the  palace  into  the  arms  of  the  prince  who 
v/as  one  day  to  become  her  husband.  The  story  seems 
to  be  founded  only  on  a  kind  of  gossipy  tradition,  bu 
there  is  a  flavor  of  romance  about  it  that  has  led  the 
superstitious,  viewing  the  incident  from  this  side  of  the 
marriage,  to  believe  that  the  union  was  fated  to  occur 
from  the  day  Elizabeth  fell  into  the  arms  of  Prince 
Charles  of  Hohenzollern  on  the  palace  stair. 

In  February  of  1S62,  when  the  princess  was  eighteen 
years  old,  her  younger  brother,  Prince  Otto,  died,  after 
a  long  period  of  invalidism.  The  parents  were  grateful 
that  their  son's  suffering  was  at  an  end,  but  the  death 
was  a  great  sorrow  to  Elizabeth.  The  palace  seemed 
hollow  and  deserted,  and  even  when  she  sought  the 
mountain  heights  she  could  not  get  above  the  heaviness 
of  her  heart.  For  a  few  months  she  held  a  little  school 
among  some  poor  children,  and  found  diversion  in  her 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 


zeal  as  teacher.  To  them  she  devoted  three  hours  a 
day;  she  read  to  her  invalid  father  another  three  hours; 
and  for  four  or  five  hours  she  devoted  herself  to  the 
piano.  But  when  the  winter  came  on,  Prince  Her- 
mann's state  of  health  required  a  change  of  climate. 
They  went  to  Baden-Baden,  and  for  a  time  Elizabeth 
enjoyed  the  gayeties  of  life;  but  while  there  she  re- 
ceived the  news  of  the  death  of  her  dearest  friend, 
Marie  von  Bibra.  This  death  set  the  sorrowing  muse 
to  work  again,  and  many  a  mourning  song  was  the  re- 
sult. In  the  autumn  of  1S63,  however,  the  sorrow  was 
again  dispelled  by  the  pleasures  of  travel.  She  was  in- 
vited to  accompany  the  Grand  Duchess  Helene  of 
Russia,  a  relative  of  her  mother's,  in  a  visit  to  Switzer- 
land. So  happy  was  their  life  together  at  Ouchy,  on 
Lake  Geneva,  that  the  Grand  Duchess  invited  the 
young  Princess  to  return  to  St.  Petersburg  with  her. 
There  she  studied  the  Russian  language,  read,  and 
took  music  lessons,  first  of  Rubinstein,  and  later  of 
Clara  Schumann.  While  on  this  visit,  her  father  died 
after  years  of  suffering.  But  Elizabeth,  who  was  just 
recovering  from  a  severe  illness  contracted  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, did  not  return  at  once  to  Neuwied.  In  June  of 
1S64,  however,  she  was  with  her  mother  again  in  Mon- 
repos,  which  now  became  their  home  for  both  winter 
and  summer. 

From  1S64  until  186S,  Elizabeth's  life  was  uneventful 
except  for  several  journeys  in  her  own  country,  trips  to 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Paris  and  Sweden,  and  an  extended  visit  in  Italy.  It 
was  while  in  Naples  that  the  Princess  came  to  the  con- 
clusion, as  the  natural  result  of  her  studies  and  sym- 
pathies, that  she  was  by  nature  fitted  and  by  heart 
inclined  to  become  a  teacher.  She  was  then  twenty- 
four  years  old.  She  wrote  to  her  mother  that  she  was 
determined,  if  she  did  not  marry,  to  prepare  for  the 
teacher's  examination.  She  was  willing,  however, 
patiently  to  bide  her  time.  But  she  did  not  tarry  that 
suitors  might  make  their  bows  before  her.  She  would 
have  none  of  them.  One  day  some  friends  who  were 
discussing  matrimonial  projects  with  her,  said  they 
would  like  to  see  her  on  a  throne.  **  The  only  throne 
that  would  allure  me,"  she  jokingly  replied,  "  would  be 
the  Rumanian ;  for  there  would  still  be  a  chance  there 
to  accomplish  something."  In  the  light  of  subsequent 
facts  this  joke  about  a  throne  that  did  not  then  exist 
must  be  considered  little  less  than  marvellous,  and  it  is 
not  only  the  superstitious  who  wag  their  heads  when 
they  come  to  this  point  of  the  story  of  Carmen  Sylva's 
life,  and  mutter  their  proverbs  about  true  words  and 
jests. 

Rumania  was  only  a  principality  subject  to  the  Sub- 
lime Porte,  when  in  iS66  Prince  Charles  of  Hohen- 
zollern  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  state,  with  the 
title  of  Prince  Charles  I.  of  Rumania.  He  had  distin- 
guished himself  in  the  Austro-Prussian  war,  that  grew 
out  of  the  Schleswig-Holstein  conflict;  and  even  before 


INTRODUCTOR  Y  SKETCH. 


that  General  von  Moltke  had  said,  '*  The  young 
Prince  of  Hohenzollern  is  destined  to  play  a  role  in 
life  and  to  let  himself  be  heard  from."  He  had  not 
been  long  in  Rumania  when  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
the  country  needed  a  princess  as  much  as  it  had  needed 
a  prince,  and  as  quickly  he  made  up  his  mind  that  ne 
would  offer  his  heart  to  Elizabeth  of  Wied,  whom  he 
remembered  to  have  met  in  Berlin,  and  with  whom  his 
sister  had  kept  up  an  active  correspondence.  The 
Prince  confessed  the  desire  of  his  heart  to  Elizabeth's 
mother,  who  undertook  to  assist  him  in  his  suit,  or 
rather,  in  true  German  fashion,  to  conduct  it  for  him> 
A  rendezvous  that  should  appear  accidental  was  ar- 
ranged at  Cologne,  and  there,  in  October  of  1869,  Prince 
Charles  and  Princess  Elizabeth  met,  fell  in  love,  and 
became  engaged  all  in  the  space  of  an  afternoon.  The 
engagement  was  a  short  one  of  necessity,  and  on  the 
15th  of  November  the  marriage  was  celebrated  in  Neu- 
wied with  such  pomp  and  circumstance  as  the  quiet 
Rhenish  town  had  never  seen  before.  But  it  was  all  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  splendor  of  the  reception  in 
Rumania,  and  of  the  marriage  ceremony  according  to 
the  rites  of  the  Greek  Church. 

After  her  marriage,  Elizabeth  devoted  herself  at 
once  to  the  study  of  the  institutions  of  the  country  and 
of  the  language  of  the  people,  which,  being  a  Latin  and 
not  a  Slavic  language,  was  easily  acquired  by  her  in 
consequence    of    her  knowledge  both    of    Latin  and 


i8  SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Italian.  In  September  of  1870,  the  Princess  became  the 
mother  of  a  daughter.  For  four  years  only  did  this 
child  live,  but  those  four  years  were  the  happiest  Eliza- 
beth had  known  since  her  own  childhood.  The  full, 
warm  love  of  her  nature  she  bestowed  upon  her  little 
Marie.  The  child  was  one  of  hundreds  of  children  to 
■succumb  to  what  seemed  a  plague  of  diphtheria,  typhoid 
and  scarlet  fevers,  which  raged  in  Bucharest  during  the 
winter  of  1873  and  1S74.  Until  April  Marie  withstood 
the  diseases,  but  then  scarlet  fever,  followed  by  diphthe- 
ria attacked  her,  and  the  slender  body  of  the  child  had  to 
yield.  The  deathbed  scene  was  woefully  pathetic.  The 
mother  watched  hopeless  and  helpless  above  Marie  till 
the  last.  The  little  one  in  her  delirium  started  from  her 
trundle-bed  and  would  not  lie  down.  "Oh,  no,  no!" 
she  said  in  terror,  "if  I  lie  down  I  shall  fall  asleep  and 
never  wake  up  any  more."  And  a;;ain  she  exclaimed : 
*'  I  want  to  go  to  Sinaia,  and  drink  of  the  water  of  Pe- 
lesch."  But  when  a  glass  was  reached  out  to  her,  she 
shook  her  head  and  said,  in  English,  "All  is  finished," 
and  shortly  after  passed  away  in  her  English  nurse's 
arms.  The  mother  stood  there  immovable,  without  a 
tear  and  without  a  complaint ;  she  said,  simply  and 
reverently,  "The  good  Lord  loved  my  child  more  than 
I,  and  has  taken  her  to  him.  I  thank  God  he  gave  her 
to  me." 

This  loss  was  to  Elizabeth  like  the  end  of  life.     She 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  met  death  before.     First  her 


INTROD UCTOR  Y  SKE  TCH.  19 

brother,  then  her  father,  and  one  friend  and  relative 
after  another  had  been  taken  from  her.  Her  sorrow  in 
each  case  was  keen ;  but  now  it  was  dull  and  heavy,  and 
harder  and  enduring.  It  permeated  her  life ;  and  yet 
she  did  not  wholly  give  up  to  it.  It  broadened  her  sym- 
pathies and  increased  her  benevolences,  and,  indeed 
widened  the  scope  of  her  life,  and  made  her  the  "little 
mother"  of  her  people.  To  them  she  had  devoted  her- 
self from  the  first.  She  had  found  that  the  jesting 
words  of  her  maidenhood  were  true  indeed :  here,  in 
Rumania,  there  was  still  a  chance  to  accomplish  some- 
thing. Her  first  work  had  been  for  the  school-children. 
A  poor-union  was  established  to  provide  proper  books 
for  the  education  of  the  children.  The  Princess  found 
that  there  were  absolutely  no  school-books  or  popular 
works  in  the  Rumanian  language,  and  she  set  about 
translating  at  once  the  best  French  books  for  children. 
Her  object  was  less  to  interest  the  young  than  to  de- 
velop a  strong  national  character,  which  she  well  knew 
could  not  exist  without  the  basis  of  language.  In  other 
ways,  too,  she  sought  to  strengthen  Rumanian  nation- 
ality. She  encouraged  the  use  of  the  national  costume, 
and  made  the  wearing  of  it  obligatory  at  the  public 
charity  balls  in  Bucharest.  She  established  a  school 
of  embroidery,  which  is  one  of  the  national  industries, 
and  a  union  called  *'  Concordia,"  whose  purpose  is 
to  further  the  development  of  all  national  industries. 
She  founded  also  an  asylum  for  orphans  and  waifs. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


in  which  between  four  and  five  hundred  girls  from 
five  to  twenty  years  of  age  are  housed  and  educated 
in  the  practical  affairs  of  life.  We  are  told  that 
the  reputation  of  this  home  is  so  exceptional  and 
wide-spread  that  the  young  men  of  Rumania  think 
themselves  lucky  if  they  can  choose  a  wife  from  among 
the  industrious  girls  in  the  *'  Asyle  Helene."  To  sum 
up  in  the  words  of  Miss  Zimmern,*  "  She  founded 
schools,  hospitals,  soup-kitchens,  convalescent  homes, 
cooking-schools,  and  creches;  she  encouraged  popular 
lectures;  she  inculcated  respect  for  sanitary  laws,  most 
needful  in  an  eastern  land ;  she  founded  art  galleries 
and  art  schools."  Some  of  her  charitable  enterprises, 
not  here  enumerated,  were  described  to  me  in  a  recent 
letter  from  the  Queen's  private  secretary,  Mr.  Robert 
Scheffer,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  many  suggestions 
and  kindnesses.  Concluding  his  description,  he  says: 
"But  as  the  Queen  does  not  like  her  charitable  works 
to  be  known,  I  shall  only  add  that  the  quantity  of  good 
done  by  her  Majesty  in  private  is  incalculable,  and  not 
one-tenth  of  it  is  known  by  the  public." 

All  this  work,  which  she  had  begun  while  *'  Itty,"  as 
her  little  daughter  was  endearingly  called,  was  still 
alive,  the  childless  mother  found  a  sweet  solace  in  the 
days  of  her  great  sorrow.  A  still  greater  comfort,  how- 
ever, was  found  in  an  appeal  to  that  talent  which  had 
been  hers  from  childhood,  but  which  had  never  been 


♦  The  Ceiitur>'  Magazine,  August,  1884. 


INTROD  UCTOR  Y  SKE  TCH. 


cultivated.  No  one  dreamed  that  the  Princess  Eliza- 
beth was  a  poet.  But  one  day  a  native  poet  named 
Alexandri  called  upon  her  in  Bucharest,  and  she  said 
to  him  :  "  I  would  like  to  make  a  confession  to  you,  but 
I  have  not  the  courage  for  it."  After  a  long  silence, 
however,  and  amid  many  blushes,  she  added  :  "  I,  too, 
make  verses."  At  Alexandri's  request  she  produced 
some  of  her  songs,  and  the  poet  was  warm  in  his  praise 
of  them.  He  urged  her  to  continue  writing,  and  in- 
dited many  poems  to  her  himself,  which  she  translated 
from  the  Rumanian  tongue  into  German.  While  at 
work  upon  these  translations,  she  wrote  : 

"  The  ^eatest  possible  change  has  come  over  my  poet-life.  I  had 
no  idea  that  poetizing  is  an  art,  or  that  one  must  learn  how  to  be  a 
poet.  I  had  supposed  that  to  learn  to  make  poems  would  be  like  a 
man  teaching  a  bird  to  sing.  Verses  and  rhymes  flowed  from  my 
pen  more  easily  than  prose.  I  feared,  as  soon  as  I  attempted  to  bind 
myself  to  rules  and  methods,  I  should  forfeit  my  talent  as  punishment 
of  my  empty  conceit.  In  the  terrible  pain  of  the  spring  of  1874,  songs 
were  no  longer  a  relief.  Only  the  strain  of  exhausting  toil  could 
deaden  it.     And  so  I  took  to  translating." 

She  applied  herself  diligently  to  this  work,  and  said 
soon  after  that  she  had  learned  more  by  translating  than 
in  any  other  way.  She  showed  her  work  to  another  poet 
of  local  fame,  whose  advice  and  assistance  she  received. 
In  the  following  summer,  with  her  mother,  she  paid  a 
visit  to  England,  and  spent  two  days  with  Max  Müller  at 
Oxford.  She  had  with  her  a  little  book  in  the  form  of  a 
missal,  which  she  had  prepared  for  her  mother,  and 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


which  she  called  "  My  Journey  through  the  World:  a 
collection  of  Rhymes  and  Verses,  dedicated  to  the 
Mother  Heart."  The  book  contained  the  poems  that  she 
had  composed  from  her  sixteenth  to  her  thirtieth  year. 
Scarcely  one  of  these  was  known  to  her  mother. 
Charles  Kingsley  was  present  when  she  surprised  her 
mother  with  the  gift.  Elizabeth  showed  to  them  the 
four  lines  in  which  she  prayed  God  to  preserve  her 
child  from  unhappiness,  want,  and  sin;  and  as  she 
pronounced  the  last  line:  „Xu  tücißt  e3  :  3cf)  J)abe  nur 
(Sines/'  Kingsley's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  the  mother 
wept  for  joy  and  pain. 

In  January,  1875,  Elizabeth  wrote:  "I  am  not  trans- 
lating at  all  now,  because  I  write  so  much  myself." 
Her  poetic  activity  was  at  its  height  when  she  was 
visiting  Sinaia.  This  beautiful  region  was  to  Bucharest 
what  Monrepos  had  been  to  Neuwied.  Here  again  she 
found  freedom  and  the  forest.  The  beautiful  stream  of 
Pelesch  dances  down  the  rough  side  of  the  mountains 
and  winds  into  the  valley  of  Sinaia.  It  is  shaded  by 
primeval  forests  in  which  the  nightingales  sing  and  the 
wild-flowers  bloom.  There  the  sad  mother-heart  found 
rest  even  while  her  mind  was  inspired  to  activity.  In 
this  region  of  beautiful  wildness  she  laid  the  corner- 
stone of  her  summer-house  in  August  of  1875,  ^^"^  the 
dancing  stream,  for  whose  water  her  child  called  in  its 
last  delirium,  gave  its  name  to  the  castle  whose  towers 
rise  among   the  trees  of    the  forest.      The  princess 


ly TRODUCTORY  SKE TCH.  a 3 

watched  the  progress  of  the  structure  with  the  greatest 
possible  interest,  and  with  no  little  sympathy  for  the 
workmen  whose  polyglot  of  tongues  —  no  less  than 
twelve  in  number  —  made  the  silences  about  the  for- 
est and  the  quarries  ring  with  strange  sounds.  Had 
she  not  watched  the  toilers  in  the  quarry  near  by,  from 
which  all  the  material  for  the  castle  was  taken,  she  pro- 
babably  would  never  have  written  the  touching  song  of 
„etetm'djuciöcr,"  page  142. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  this  summer  that  Elizabeth 
wrote  the  libretto  for  an  operetta  performed  during  the 
following  winter  in  Bucharest.  The  work  was  a  poeti- 
cal adaptation  of  an  old  Rumanian  legend. 

When  the  princess  had  been  working  at  her  poetry 
zealously  for  more  than  two  years,  at  such  times  and 
hours  as  freedom  from  official  life  permitted,  and  just 
at  the  time  when  she  had  sufficient  material  to  lead 
her  to  think  of  publishing  her  work  to  the  world,  the 
Turko-Russian  war  broke  out,  and  Rumania  became 
the  battle-ground  of  a  terrible  conflict.  That  was  not  a 
time  for  poetrv-,  except  of  the  heroic  order.  The  poetry 
of  words  was  forgotten  in  the  poetry  of  deeds.  Prince 
Charles  of  necessity  took  Russia's  side,  and  became  a 
gallant  leader  against  the  Turkish  crescent.  Princess 
Elizabeth  followed  the  army,  and  sought  to  temper  the 
misery  of  the  battle-field.  She  was  the  Florence  Night- 
ingale of  the  war.  Her  people  called  her  "  the  mother 
of  the  wounded."    Childless,  she  was  always  a  mother. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


She  moved  from  bed  to  bed  in  the  hospitals,  and 
spoke  words  of  comfort,  nay  almost  of  healing.  She 
was  worshipped  by  every  sufferer.  At  the  close  of  the 
war  a  marble  statue  was  raised  to  her  by  the  wives  of 
the  officers  of  the  Rumanian  army  as  a  memorial  of  the 
merciful  part  played  by  her  on  the  battle-field.  Fol- 
lowing the  war  there  was  a  rearrangement  of  boundary 
and  territory  between  Russia  and  Rumania,  which  was 
ratified  by  the  treaty  of  Berlin,  which,  at  the  same  time, 
recognized  the  independence  of  Rumania  as  a  kingdom, 
though  providing  that  certain  conditions  should  be  ful- 
filled. These  were  carried  out,  and  in  March,  i8Si, 
Prince  Charles  issued  his  royal  proclamation.  On  the 
22d  of  May  he  was  crowned  with  a  diadem  made  from 
cannon  captured  at  Plevna,  where  he  distinguished 
himself,  as  did  his  people,  for  bravery.  At  the  same 
time  a  golden  crown  was  placed  upon  the  head  of  "  the 
mother  of  the  wounded."  The  ceremony  was  carried 
out  with  true  royal  magnificence,  and  the  day  and  night 
were  given  up  to  festivities  and  rejoicing. 

It  is  only  since  the  end  of  the  Turko-Russian  war 
that  the  Queen,  as  we  must  now  call  her,  has  appeared 
in  literature.  It  was  in  1880  that  the  first  book  was 
published,  bearing  on  its  title-page  the  name  "  Carmen 
Sylva"  —  an  appropriate  pen-name  for  one  who  loves 
the  song  and  the  forest  as  Elizabeth  always  has.  This 
first  book  consists  of  translations  into  German  of  the 
Rximanian  poems  of  Alexandri  and  others.   At  this  same 


IN  TROD  UCTOR  V  SICE  TCH.  35 

time  she  wrote  a  French  comedy  for  a  company  in  Bu- 
charest, and  a  number  of  aphorisms  in  French,  which 
were  afterwards  published  in  Paris  under  the  title  of 
"  Pensees  d'une  Reine."  *  In  1881  the  queen  published 
her  first  book  of  original  poems.  The  book  is  enti- 
tled „Stürme"  and  contains  four  poems:  „SappIjO," 
„§ammerftein/'  „Ueber  beit  SBaffern/'  and  ,/Scf)iff* 
bruc^.'"  I  cannot  go  into  a  criticism  of  these  poems, 
which  are  of  varying  merit.  Both  Miss  Zimmern  t  and 
Professor  Boyesen  t  agree  that  „Sappl)0"  is  the  best 
of  the  four.     Of  this  Professor  Boyesen  says  :  — 

"  Miss  Zimmern  has  anticipated  me  in  saying  that  "  Sappho,"  the 
principal  poem  in  this  volume,  is  quite  un-Greek.  It  is,  in  fact,  both 
in  form  and  conception,  as  Germanic  as  possible.  It  has  none  of  the 
bright  and  unconscious  sensuousness  and  heedless  grace  of  Greek 
song.  The  fateful  dream  of  Lais,  the  daughter  of  Sappho,  with 
which  the  poem  opens,  bears  some  resemblance  to  the  dream  of 
ChriemhDd  in  the  first  canto  of  the  "  Niebelungen  Lay,"  although 
butterflies  are  substituted  for  eagles.  But  apart  from  the  moral  ana- 
chronism which  is  implied  in  the  domestic  virtues  and  Teutonic  con- 
scientiousness of  the  Lesbian  poetess,  there  is  much  to  admire.  As  a 
mere  woman,  without  reference  to  age  or  nationality,  Sappho  is 
strongly  and  vividly  delineated,  and   the   songs  which    she  sings, 


*  That  this  work  has  a  high  standing  in  France  may  be  judged 
from  the  fact  that  the  French  Academy,  on  April  25,  1S8S,  voted  to 
offer  its  author  a  medal  of  honor,  devoting  to  this  puq)ose  a  part  of 
the  accrued  interest  of  the  prize-fund  established  by  Mrs.  Vincengo 
Botta,  of  New  York,  for  literarj'  works  composed  by  women. 

t  The  Century  Magazine,  August,  1884. 

%  The  Independent,  November  24,  1887. 


16  SO.VGS  OF  TOIL. 


though  they  have  neither  the  Sapphic  meter  nor  spirit,  are  lyrical 
gems  which  we  could  ill  afford  to  miss.  Thus  the  charming  little 
lay :  „SSeim  tobt  id)  tuerbc  fein,"  in  the  third  canto,  has  an  "  un- 
premeditated art"  which  none  but  true  singers  attain.  It  expires 
like  a  sigh  in  the  air,  and  is  as  eloquent  of  the  emotion  which 
prompted  it.  The  hexameter  in  "Sappho  "3s  handled  with  much 
skill;  but  the  perpetually  occurring  alliteration,  to  my  mind,  inter- 
feres with  its  melodious  effect.  As  a  metrical  device  alliteration  is  of 
Germanic  origin,  and  seems  alien  to  the  spirit  of  Greek  poetry. 
There  is  also  a  certain  exasperating  monotony  in  the  constantly  re- 
peated initial  letters,  which  gives  an  air  of  artificiality  even  to  the 
noblest  verse." 

In  1882  appeared  „S)ie  §eje/'  a  collection  of  poems 
inspired  by  Carl  Cauer's  statue  of  '*  The  Witch."  Of 
this  book  Miss  Zimmern  says :  — 

"  This  work  is  very  characteristic  of  the  Queen's  writings,  in  that 
she  is  apt  to  wTite  too  fast,  so  that  excellent  fundamental  ideas  are 
made  abortive  by  inadequate  execution.  She  does  not  observe  the 
Horation  ma5:im ;  the  impetuosity  that  is  a  part  of  her  character  is 
reflected  in  her  work.  She  lacks  patience.  This  fault  is  really  to  be 
deplored,  and  the  more  that  the  Queen  has  genuine  poetical  gifts,  a 
fine  fancy,  a  musical  ear,  fire,  and  grace.  But  her  facility  consti- 
tutes her  weakness.  Had  she  not  been  a  royal  author,  had  she  had 
to  do  battle  with  the  exigencies,  caprices,  uncertainties  of  publishers 
and  editors,  she  would  have  received  just  that  schooling  which  she 
lacks,  and  which  hinders  her  from  being  a  great  poet,  and  confines 
her  within  the  ranks  of  minor  singers." 

I  cannot  find  the  evidences  of  haste  that  appear 
to  Miss  Zimmern.  The  portions  of  „2)ie  §e^*e"  that 
might  have  been  hurriedly  done  are  those  written  in  an 
unrhymed  trochaic  tetrameter,  but  even  these  show  no 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH.  27 

carelessness  in  construction.  And  there  are  poems 
in  the  work  which  are  as  good  in  point  of  technique  as 
anything  the  Queen  has  done.  It  is,  moreover,  hardly 
fair  to  charge  with  violation  of  the  Horatian  maxim  one 
who  kept  the  secret  of  her  compositions  to  herself  from 
her  sixteenth  to  her  thirtieth  year,  and  only  began  to 
publish  when  she  was  nearly  forty. 

The  next  poetical  work  of  Carmen  Sylva's  that  was 
published  is  entitled  „3e{)00al}."'  It  describes  the  wan- 
derings of  Ahasuerus  in  search  of  God.  His  journey 
begins  with  the  scoffing  assertion,  „(S6  ift  fctn  ©Ott !" 
and  ends  with  the  acknowledgment,  „@ott  ifl  eiüig 
^Serben."  The  poem  tells  its  story  with  force  and  fer- 
vor. "It  would  be  vain,"  says  Professor  Boyesen,  "to 
deny  the  exalted  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  verse  in 
which  the  wrestlings  of  Ahasuerus  with  the  infinite  are 
depicted."  The  Queen's  next  volume  of  verse  made  its 
appearance  in  1SS3,  under  the  title  of  ,^3)Zeine  ^Ru^."  This 
is  a  collection  of  lyrics  and  songs  —  the  kind  of  verse  that 
shows  Carmen  Sylva  to  the  best  advantage.  This  was 
apparent  even  in  „2appl)0/'  the  most  beautiful  parts  of 
which  are  the  songs,  introduced  in  much  the  same  way 
and  to  the  same  purpose  as  the  interludes  are  intro- 
duced by  Tennyson  in  the  "  Princess."  The  first  poem 
of  „9J?eine  9xul)"  is  called  „Carmen"  and  the  last, 
„®l)lDa."  Between  these  boundaries  the  Queen  has 
poured  out  her  heart  and  made  her  appeals  to  and 
from  nature,  and  written  down  her  pretty  conceits  and 


a8  SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


the  epigrams  in  which  she  delights.  The  first  edition  of 
„SJJeine  9?ul)"  was  quickly  exhausted,  and  I  have  been 
unable  to  obtain  a  copy,  much  to  my  regret,  as  it  con- 
tained the  first  series  of  „^anbirerfcrlieber" —  "Songs 
of  Toil."  These  were  withheld  by  the  Queen  from 
the  second  edition  in  order  that  she  might  improve  and 
enlarge  the  series,  which  has  now  been  concluded,  and 
comprises  the  poems  originally  published  in  „9Jfeine 
9^11^/'  and  those  now  first  gathered  in  this  volume. 
The  Queen  will  publish  the  entire  collection  in  a  vol- 
ume by  itself,  I  am  informed,  some  time  during  the 
coming  winter. 

To  a  book  of  poems  published  in  1884  Carmen  Sylva 
gave  her  whole  heart;  for  this  one  is  entitled  „9Jieill 
9i^ein  \"  Here  she  writes  of  the  places  she  loves 
most,  the  spots  dear  to  her  ^ugenbjeit.  „53ingen/' 
„IBorelei/'  ,ßj\t  9J^ofeI/'  „gjionrepoS/'  „5(Itnjicb,"  are 
some  of  the  titles  of  the  thirty  songs  that  make  up  this 
book.  The  songs  are  as  sweet  and  simple  as  the  twenty 
etchings  that  adorn  the  volume  are  beautiful.  One 
more  volume  of  poems  has  followed  this.  It  is  entitled 
„SJiein  S3urf)/'  and  contains  a  collection  of  poems  upon 
Egypt.  I  have  not  been  able  to  secure  the  volume,  and 
cannot  speak  of  Jts  merits. 

Of  the  Queen's  recent  prose  works  I  have  space  to 
give  little  more  than  the  titles.  They  comprise :  „Sei-- 
ben§  ©rbenganc;"  (1882),  a  collection  of  Rumanian  le- 
gends; „5luö  Carmen  ®t)(oa'ö  Ä'önigreid)"  (1883),  also 


IN  TR  OD  UC  TOR  Y  SKE  TCH.  29 

a  collection  of  tales,  which  were  revised  in  a  new  edition 
published  last  year;  „Gin  @ebet"  (1883),  a  story; 
„%VL^  Sraei  233eltcu"  (1885),  a  novel;  „%\i'^^"  (18S6), 
a  novel;  „(2§  tlopft"  (1887),  a  story;  and  „gelbpofi" 
(1887),  a  novel.  In  the  composition  of  „%Vii  3*oei 
SSelten,"  „^ftra,"  and  „gelbpoft"  as  well  as  of  a  col- 
lection of  tales  called  „3n  ber  "^xxt"  the  Queen  had 
the  collaboration  of  the  Frau  Dr.  Kremnitz.  In  Au- 
gust of  1887  the  Queen  translated  a  novel  by  Pierre  Loti 
in  the  space  of  fourteen  days,  and  published  the  book 
under  the  title  of  „Sc^lanbfifdjer."'  During  this  period 
of  marvellous  literary  activity  the  Queen  also  revised 
and  brought  out  a  new  edition  of  her  "  Les  Pensees 
d'une  Reine."  She  has  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
many  of  her  songs  set  to  music  by  Bungert,  Reinecke, 
and  other  composers.  Some  are  now  in  preparation 
by  Madame  Augusta  Holmesand  Charles  Gounod;  and 
Bungert,  I  am  informed,  is  to  set  the  „^aiibiuerferlieber" 
to  music.  It  is  now  necessary  that  I  speak  in  detail 
of  these  „^anbroerferlieber"  or  "  Songs  of  Toil,"  to 
which  I  have  several  times  alluded. 

The  "Songs  of  Toil,"  which  give  this  volume  its 
name,  have  never  been  published  in  Germany  or  Ru- 
mania. Seventeen  of  these  songs,  in  German  and  in 
English,  were  first  published  in  The  Indepeitdejit  of  New 
York,  in  November,  1S87.  Six  others  were  published 
in  the  same  journal  in  July  of  the  present  year.  The 
rest  appear  now  for  the  first  time.    Early  in  the  summer 


30  SOiVGS  OF  TOIL. 


of  1887  I  wrote  to  Carmen  Sylva,  in  my  capacity  of  edi- 
tor of  the  poetical  department  of  The  Independent, 
asking  her  to  contribute  to  the  columns  of  which  I  had 
charge.  I  received  in  reply  seventeen  "  songs,"  together 
with  the  following  note  from  the  Queen's  secretary : 

Castel  Pelesch,  August  21st,  iSSj. 
Secretariat  de  S.  M.  La  Reine  de  Roumanie . 
Editor  of  The  Independent: 

Sir:  —  In  answer  to  your  honored  of  the  i6th  past,  Her  Majesty 
the  Queen,  breaking  for  once  her  rule  of  never  gmng  any  of  her 
productions  to  a  periodical,  charges  me  to  send  you  the  second 
series  of  „^attbiuerterlieber/'  the  first  of  which  was  published  in 
Carman  Sylva's  „5Keiiie  IRu^."  The  inclosed  seventeen  songs, 
being  of  quite  recent  date,  have  not  yet  appeared  in  print,  and  Her 
Majesty  leaves  it  to  your  choice  to  publish  them  all  or  to  make  a 
selection  of  those  most  adapted  to  the  American  public.  In  case  the 
peculiar  and  essentially  German  character  of  the  poems  should  render 
a  satisfactory  translation  in  verse  difficult,  Her  Majesty  thinks  it 
would  suffice  to  give  the  German  original,  adding  to  it  a  good  trans- 
lation in  prose.  As  to  the  offered  hotwrariiim.  Her  Majesty  is 
pleased  to  accept  it  as  a  contribution  to  the  sums  produced  by  the 
sale  of  her  other  works,  which  form  a  special  fund  for  needy  authors; 
you  will  please  send  the  money  to  me.  I  beg  also  that  you  will  give 
me  immediate  notice  on  receipt  of  the  manuscript,  and  I  am,  sir. 
Your  obedient  servant, 

Robert  Scheffer, 
Private  Secretary  to  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  of  Rumania. 

After  these  poems  had  been  published,  the  Queen 
herself  wrote  me  the  following  note : 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH. 


Sir  :  —  Your  translations  of  my  songs  are  so  very  beautiful  that  I 
was  quite  surprised  in  reading  them.  There  are  very  few  little  things 
you  have  perhaps  misunderstood,  but  they  are  scarcely  worth  while 
talking  of  when  it  is  all  so  very  good.  As  I  have  translated  a  good 
deal  myself,  I  know  the  difficulties  ver>'  well,  and  I  admire  your  work 
in  consequence.  I  am  very  happy  to  be  brought  in  so  beautiful  a 
clothing  before  your  American  public,  and  I  thank  you  kindly  for  all 
the  pains  you  have  taken. 

EUZABETH. 

With  this  note  the  Queen  sent  me  „3nU/'  page  62,  and 
„®cf)eerenfc^teiferlieb/'  page  38,  and  subsequently  her 
secretary  forwarded  to  me  the  twelve  additional  songs 
which  are  included  in  this  volume. 

It  is  fortunate  that  the  American  public  should  first 
know  the  Queen  as  a  poet  through  these  „5)aubirerEer= 
lieber  ;"  for  they  are  at  once  the  index  of  her  character 
and  the  illustration  of  her  genius.  I  say  genius,  for 
certainly  the  chief  attribute  of  genius  is  not  wanting  — 
originality.  The  „^nnbmerferlieber"  in  conception  and 
expression  are  original.  It  is  true  that  in  some  of 
them,  in  the  „iBäcferlieb,"  page  92,  and  in  „2)er  @eigcn= 
jnad)er/'  page  138,  for  example,  there  is  a  suggestion  of 
Heine;  but  this  is  so  slight  that  we  may  say  that  the 
Queen's  songs  are  distinctively  her  own.  And  they  are 
the  index  of  her  character.  No  one  can  read  these 
songs  and  not  know  the  Queen.  She  said  herself,  in 
one  of  her  letters  quoted  by  her  biographer:  "The 
pictures  of  my  fantasy  are  seldom  gay  —  they  never 
were."     Her  life  has  been  a  sad  one,  and  most  of  these 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


songs  are  sung  in  a  minor  key.  But  it  is  not  a  selfish 
sadness  that  the  poems  reveal.  On  the  contrary,  her 
boundless  sympathy  for  the  poor  is  the  most  striking 
disclosure  of  these  "  Songs  of  Toil."  It  is  as  special  as 
it  is  comprehensive.  In  each  case  does  she  seem  to  have 
entered  into  the  life,  made  up  of  trials,  hope,  pride,  am- 
bition, discouragement,  sorrow,  or  joy  of  the  one  whose 
song  she  is  singing.  No  proud  queen  ever  showed  such 
touch  of  sympathy.  She  has  the  soul  to  feel  and  the 
gift  to  sing.  Into  the  lives  of  others  she  pours  her  own 
heart-beats.  How  admirably  in  the  „®ci)ifferUeb/'  page 
68,  has  she  contrasted  the  two  phases  of  the  boatman's 
life,  whose  home  is  on  the  Danube.  We  see  him  one  day 
sailing  merrily  down  with  the  current,  the  picture  of  in- 
dolent ease  and  joy;  and  the  next  day  we  see  him  toiling 
along  the  sandy  shore,  towing  his  boat  to  the  upper 
stream,  his  task  severe,  but  his  progress  sure.  Again, 
one  is  at  a  loss  to  fancy  how  so  disagreeable  a  subject 
as  the  „yjle^ger"  could  have  been  treated  better  than 
in  the  grimly  humorous  way  in  which  the  Queen  has 
set  forth  the  „"uJiet^gerlteb/'  page  40.  In  „2)er  @ä= 
matin/'  page  64,  what  a  vivid  glimpse  of  the  farmer 
sowing  his  seed  do  the  words  „'^XC^tX  ®d)ritte  baiin  bte 
§anbtiOÜ"  present!  Again  there  is  genius  in  the  co- 
quetry of  the  mill-stream;  the  pathos  of  the  „3inimer= 
liiQiin^Ueb/'  page  42,  is  as  simple  as  it  is  sweet;  „53etm 
güttern"  page  52,  and  „33eim  ÜJiolfeii/'  page  56,  carry 
the  odor  of  clover  with  them ;  and  so  on  through  the 


IN  TROD  UCTOR  Y  S/CE  TCH. 


list  we  find  that  each  has  a  charm  or  a  piquancy  of  its 
own,  until  we  come  to  the  „@teinfd)neiber/'  page  142, 
where  we  are  forced  to  believe  that  the  question  of  the 
concluding  lines,  with  its  inevitable  answer  "No!"  ap- 
plies to  the  toiling  poor  of  whatever  trade  or  calling. 

In  speaking  of  the  „^atibtDerfetlieber/'  I  must  not 
overlook  their  mechanism.  The  measures  are  chosen 
with  an  appreciation  that  is  little  short  of  inspiration. 
For  example,  wherever  the  trade  of  a  songster  is  associ- 
ated with  any  kind  of  noise  or  motion,  we  have  both 
sound  and  motion  reproduced  in  the  meter ;  this  onoma- 
topoeia is  especially  noticeable  in  the  „ÜJJüUerlieb/'  page 
48;  the  „Söpferlieb"  page  98;  „^apiermad^er/'  page 
46;  „Seirn  Spinnen/'  page  80;  and  „2)er  Släfcr/' 
page  130.  The  Queen  has  an  excellent  musical  ear; 
the  numerous  feminine  endings  and  the  double  rhymes 
are  sufficient  proof  of  this.  One  is  even  inclined  to  ad- 
mit that  her  variation  of  the  sonnet  form  is  felicitous, 
as  it  appears  in  „2;er  ^arbenreiber/'  page  88;  „2)er 
^anbbrtefträger/'  page  116;  and  „Ter  »Sämann/'  page 
64.  This  substitution  for  the  iambic  pentameter  of  an 
iambic  hexameter  with  extra  syllables  at  the  end  of  the 
third  and  sixth  foot  is  a  musical  device  of  which  the 
Hungarian  poet  Lenau  has  availed  himself  in  at  least 
one  notable  instance.  It  is  quite  possible  that  his 
poem,  „2)er  §erbftabenb/'  may  be  a  favorite  with  the 
Queen. 

In  concluding  this  sketch  of  Carmen  Sylva's  life  and 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


work,  and  in  presenting  the  translations  of  her  „§anb* 
irerfertieber/'  I  must  urge  that  her  graceful  style  is  not 
to  be  judged  by  whatever  harshness  there  may  be  in  the 
English  versions.  Read  the  original,  those  who  can; 
the  translation,  those  who  must ;  read,  and  you  will  ac- 
cept the  statement  of  the  venerable  poet  Whittier,  that 
the  Queen  of  Rumania  is  "  crowned  not  alone  with  a 
diadem  and  title,  but  with  the  laurel-wreaths  of  poetic 
genius." 

J.  E.  B. 
New  York,  August,  1888. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


(35) 


SONGS   OF  TOIL. 


THE    SCISSORS-GRINDER'S    SONG. 

T~^  ETCH  on  your  scissors,  your  slender  blade  — 
To  make  them  brilliant  and  sharp's  my  trade; 
xo  every  door-step  my  grindstone  comes, 
And  on  and  ever  it  strolls  and  hums. 


I  and  my  grindstone,  we  wander  by, 
And  no  one  asks  me  from  whence  come  I ; 
How  poor  I  am,  no  one  cares  to  know, 
None  care  to  hear  of  my  spirit's  woe. 

I'm  ground  by  sorrow  both  day  and  night, 
And  yet  I  never  am  polished  bright ; 
I'm  ground  by  hunger,  and  though  it  pales 
The  face,  to  sharpen  the  wit  it  fails. 


^anbvoevhvlkbcv. 


Sd?eerenfd}leifcrlte5. 

<^ ringt  l^er  tie  ©c^eeren,  bie  ÄUngen  fein, 
&   3cl)  mod)'  fie  gtänjenb  unb  jd)arf  iinb  vein; 
Go  {)arrt  mein  9?äbci)en  t>or  jebcr  S^^iir, 
Unb  fd^nuiTt  unb  manbert  fo  für  unb  für. 

3c^  unb  mein  9läbd)en,  mir  ge^'n  üorbei; 
e§  fragt  mic^  deiner,  mol)er  ic^  fei ; 
SSill  Ä'einer  miffen  mie  arm  ic^  bin, 
SSill  Reiner  ^ören  mie  me^  mein  @inn. 

Tli6)  fc^teift  bie  ©orge  bei  Sag  unb  '^Jladft, 
Unb  f)at  mic^  bennod)  uici)t  fein  gemacht ; 
Tliä)  f(f)Ieift  ber  junger,  unb  mac^t  bod)  nid)t 
S)en  2ßi^  mir  fc^ärfer  ein  blanf  @efid)t. 

3Jlic^  fd)leift  bic  5Reue,  unb  lößt  mir  boc^ 
2)aS  ^erje  fd^artig  unb  roftig  noc^. 
Xa^  9?ab  ift  emfig  unb  rau^  ber  @tein  — 
iöringt  l)er  bie  SUngen  —  id)  mad)'  fie  fein? 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


I'm  ground  by  grief,  but  the  work  is  ill, 
For  notched  and  rusty  my  heart  is,  still. 
The  wheel  is  whirling,  the  stone  has  grit  — 
Fetch  on  your  steel  —  shall  I  sharpen  it  ? 


(\df  bin  ein  genfer,  ic^  jt^minge  boS  53cU, 
^  Uub  men  i^  treffe,  mirb  nirf)t  me^r  Ijeil; 
Unb  roen  i6)  binbe  fann  nici)t  me^r  gel^'n ; 
2öe§  ^opf  id)  faffe,  tann  nimmer  fte^'n. 

3c^  bin  ein  3)ottor;  brum  fommt  ju  mirl 
^d)  ^eile  jebeg  @ebred)en  l)icr; 
S)ie  lüebenSmübigfeit  ge^t  fürba§ 
äJJit  einem  ein3igen  Siberia^. 

3rf)  bin  ein  Söirtt)  nnb  mein  SSein  ifl  rot^, 
Uub  mit  bcr  Äreibe  I)at'8  feine  ^otlj; 
SBor  meiner  ®cf)cufe  ge^t  uic^t  oorbci, 
2)ie  SRu^'  ift  fid^er,  bie  3ec^e  fret  I 


THE    BUTCHER'S    SONG. 

T  AM  a  headsman,  the  ax  I  swing, 

And  if  I  strike  that  ends  the  thing  ; 
And  what  I  tie  up  cannot  get  loose  — 
The  head  I  grapple  can't  slip  the  noose. 

I  am  a  doctor,  so  come  to  me ; 
Here  heal  I  every  infirmity  ; 
The  hypochondria  is  cured  for  good 
By  only  a  single  letting  of  blood. 

I  am  a  landlord,  my  wine  is  red ; 
I  chalk  no  slate  when  a  man  is  fed  ; 
Don't  pass  the  inn  that  belongs  to  me; 
The  rest  is  certain ;  the  score  is  free  I 

4X 


^tmmermannsücb. 

'ir  ging  e«  gut,  fo  i\a6)  unb  nac^  ; 
2)ie  Äinber  n)urben  gro^  : 
Ttün  eigen  §au8  lüar  unter  2)ac^  — 

(So  fc^ön  ttjar  mir  fein  (Schloß ! 
Unb  :  „  55ater ! "  jagt  fte,  „SSeißt  2)u  noc^  ? 

einft  gab  eS  trocf en  S3rob ! 
3e^t  ^ie^'n  ins  eigne  §au8  tüir  hod)  !"— 
2)ic  2JZutter,  bie  ift  tobt ! 

2)cr  (Schreiner  ^at  i^r  §au§  gebaut, 

Unb  nid^t  ber  ^intmemiann ; 
@tatt  meiner  l^ot  ber  Pfarrer  taut 

2)en  @egen§fpruc^  get^an. 
SJiit  i^eierfang  unb  ©locfenüang, 

Unb  53Iumen  bleu  unb  rot^, 
@tatt  ©läferflang  baä  §ers  mir  jprang ;  — 

S)ie  SDZutter,  bie  ijl  tobt ! 


THE   CARPENTER'S    SONG. 

MY  lot  grew  lighter  day  by  day; 
The  children  grew  apace ; 
I  built  a  little  house  last  May  — 

No  palace  like  that  place. 
And — "Father,"  said  she,  "sure  you  know 

That  once  we  ate  dr.-  bread  ? 
Into  our  own  house  now  we  go  !  *' — 
The  Mother,  she  is  dead ! 

Her  house  the  undertaker  made, 

And  not  the  carpenter; 
My  grace  unsaid,  the  pastor  prayed 

In  loud  tones  over  her. 
The  day  that's  spent  with  merriment, 

'Mid  blossoms  blue  and  red, 
No  music  lent  —  my  heart  was  rent !  — 

The  mother,  she  is  dead. 

43 


sojVgs  of  toil. 


2öir  I)atten'§  boc^  fo  treit  gebracf)t, 

2Bir  atteö  i^ogelpoar ! 
2Ber  l)at  an'§  ©terben  au^  gebadjt, 

2il8  man  beifammen  trar ! 
ÜSerrommelt  ftnb  bie  g^enfter  bid)t — 

2)Qmit  tiafg  feine  gfJotf)  — 
3?ertauft  bag  §ou§!  3d^  mag  c8  nid^t- 

2)ie  abutter,  bie  ift  tobt! 


soy  CS  OF  TOIL. 


Vv''e  pulled  together  many  a  year  ; 

Like  old  bird-mates  were  we ; 
But  who  e'er  thinks  of  dying  here 

While  both  together  be  ? 
Fast  barred  is  every  window-blind  — 

I  care  not  what  is  said; 
Yes,  sell  the  house  !  I  do  not  mind  — 

The  mother,  she  is  dead ! 


Paptermad^er. 

ie  alten  Sappen  mir  jugefütirt ! 


w 

^     2)ie  f(f)mu^'gen  i?umpen  l)ineingerü{)rt  — 

3um  53rei,  gum  33rei,  tt)ie  baS  SBettgerid)t ! 
^iim  S3rei,  gum  S3rei,  mie  ein  lang  @ebid)t ! 

S)ann  fommt  eä  fd)neeig  unb  glatt  ^erauS, 
^Jlu§  Atollen  unb  2öal5en  unb  9iabgebrau8, 

3n  großen  ^errn,  mit  ber  f^räulein  ^m ; 
5^ür  üeine  2)ici^ter,  gum  9^ad)tgefc^mier ; 

3n  3eitimg8j(^reibern  mit  ^ofteS^auct) ; 
{^ür  !i!icbegbriefc^en  mit  >Sc^meirf)etrau(f) ; 

Unb  gu  ^Romanen,  b'rin  \ä)U(ijt  ergä^lt, 
SESie  fici)  bic  2Jlenfd)^eit  fo  ttjeiter  quält, 

5luf  gleid^en  ge^en,  in  ben  bereinft 

2)ie  S^ränen  ftrömten,  um  bie  bu  meinjl ! 
46 


T 


THE   PAPER-MAKER. 

HOSE  pieces  of  rags  be  quick  and  bring! 
The  dirty  old  shreds  are  just  the  thing  — 


For  pulp,  for  pulp  to  record  life's  wrong, 
For  pulp,  for  pulp  for  a  poet's  song. 

It  conies  out  smooth  and  glossy  and  thin, 
From  rollers  and  wheels  and  cylinders'  din, 

For  lords  and  ladies  their  notes  to  indite  ; 
For  petty  poets,  who  scrawl  by  night. 

And  newspaper  scribblers  who  bluster  and  blowj 
For  little  love-letters  where  compliments  grow  ; 

And  stories  in  which  the  aftiictions  of  men 
Are  wretchedly  told  by  an  unskilled  pen 

On  just  such  rags  as  once  wiped  away 
The  tears  whereat  thou  weepest  to-day  ! 
47 


müUerlteb. 

:^otrie  üom  SBaffer 

@o  wirb  Dom  l?iebc^en 
3Jiein  'Sinn  gebre^t. 

es  !o|^,  es  flreic^elt, 
(58  fd)ilt  unb  fprü^t, 

Unb  Iad)t  unb  roenbct 
Tlix  mein  ®emüt^. 

Sie  fteif  id)  tt)c^re, 
(Sie  fpric^t  fo  fc^nell ; 

Unb  brummenb  menbet 
©ic^  i^r  ©efeH. 

Unb  plappert  Slntttjort, 

Unb  ijl  fo  bumm, 

Unb  gct)t  nnb  glaubt  i^r  - 

2Bei§  ni(^t  marum. 
48 


THE   MILLER'S    SONG. 

JUST  as  the  water 

The  mill-wheel  twirls, 
My  little  sweetheart 
My  senses  whirls. 

She  chats^caresses, 

And  chides  me  ill, 
And  laughs  and  changes 

My  mood  at  will. 

And  if  I  murmur, 

She  talks  so  fast ; 
And  her  companion 

Gets  cross  at  last. 

He  rattles  an  answer, 

Some  silly  cry, 
And  goes  and  believes  her  - 

He  knows  not  why. 

49 


SOATGS  OF  TOIL. 


2)od)  fte  ^üpft  lüeitcr. 

3)ee  i?ebens  fro^, 
Unb  mac^t'8  bem  9?äc^|icn 

2)Qnn  lüieber  fo. 

2)er  iBad)  ift  treulos, 
2)a8  arjäöblein  fdilec^t  — 

O  9Kül^Ienräber ! 
O  9}iüücr'8  tnetfit  I 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


But  on  she  capers, 
Through  life  so  gay, 

And  treats  the  next  one 
The  selfsame  way. 

The  brook  is  faithless, 
The  maiden  coy  — 

O  whirling  mill-wheel  1 
O  miller  boy  1 


Beim  füttern. 

Jftic  buftig  riecf)t'S  im  @taE!    S)ie  Äül)c  ftrecfcn 
'2-'      2)ie  §älfe  lang,  mit  ungebulb'gem  53rummen, 
S)en  Älee  begrüßenb  mit  sufriebnem  ©ummen, 
Uiib  tt)ie  bie  9?afen  fte  jo  glänjenb  lecfen ! 

2)ie  ftf)önen  2:i)iere  mit  bem  ©ammetfleibe, 

3m  golbiien  2ic!)t  ber  ©ommermorgenfonne, 
2JJit  quclienb  unerfd)öpftem  i^ebenSbronne, 

Tlit  golbnen  ©ammetaugen  üoller  $?eibe. 

Unb  ftumm  erbulben  bann  fie  beim  ©ebärcn 

S)er  <2d)merjen  ^ein.    2Bie  fmb  bie  aub'ren  tü^t 
SSoü  2JJitgefüt)l !    S)a^  fpärlic^  unb  mit  2JJü^e 

@ie  an  bem  Sage  brummenb  2J^Ucf)  gemä^ren. 

S)a8  Iierä'ge  Äälbc^en  mufe  ic^  nun  belügen; 

2)ie  §anb  im  (Eimer.    2JJeine  ginger  taugen 
?lt§  Gntertrug.    S)e6  jarten  2JJäuIrf)en§  Oaugcn 

p^l'  i(^  fo  marm  mit  innigem  S5ergnügen. 


FODDER-TIME. 

TT  ow  sweet  the  manger  smells  !    The  cows  all  listen 
With    outstretched   necks,   and   with   impatient 

lowing ; 
They  greet  the  clover,  their  content  now  showing — 
And  how  they  lick  their  noses  till  they  glisten  ! 

The  velvet-coated  beauties  do  not  languish 

Beneath  the  morning's  golden  light  that's  breaking, 
The  unexhausted  spring  of  life  awaking, 

Their  golden  eyes  of  velvet  full  of  anguish. 

They  patiently  endure  their  pains.  Bestowing 
Their  sympathy,  the  other  cows  are  ruing 
Their  unproductive  udders  and  renewing 

At  milking-time  their  labor  and  their  lowing. 

And  now  I  must  deceive  the  darling  bossy  — 

With  hand  in  milk  must  make  it  suck  my  finger. 
Its  tender  lips  cling  close  like  joys  that  linger, 

And  feel  so  warm  with  dripping  white  and  flossy. 


54  SOJVGS  OF  TOIL. 


S)icfclbe  §anb,  tie  mir  bie  $?eute  fiiffeit 

S5oU  6l)rfurc^t,   unb  bie  malt  unb   fpielt  unb 
birfjtct  — 

O  ^ätt'  id^  immer  nur  ben  Alee  gef(i)id)tet; 
2)08  unfdiulbgöoüe  ^n^finb  nähren  muffen ! 


SONGS  OF   TOIL.  55 

This  very  hand  my  people  with  devotion 

Do  kiss,  which  paints  and  plays  and  writes  more- 
over — 

I  would  it  had  done  naught  but  pile  the  clover 
To  feed  the  kine  tnat  know  no  base  emotion  J 


§ 


Beim  IHoIfen. 

o!  ®o!    Siebe  SSraune !  nun  qieb  fdiön  kr! 
2)ann  !negt  bein  Äälbd^eu  aud)  um  fo  mel^r  I 


Unb  ta^  3)u'§  treibt :  üon  bcn  Äälbd)cii  aT 
3ft  2)eiu'!3  baö  fd)önfte  üom  gauseii  Stall! 

®d)h)orjbrauii  ift  eg,  mit  tncifjem  ®tern ! 
©elt?   ®u  roillft'S  ^aben,  ®u  lecfft  fo  gern? 

S)o!  füfj  S)ein  ÄleineS!  unb  brumme  nid)t  2)u! 
3d)  la^'  es  boc^  nic^t  gum  Srinfen  gu ! 

Unf  grau  nennt'g  ^oüuy;  hai  xväx'  Latein, 
3c3^  benf :  auf  S)eutfd)  ft)irb'g  iro^I  SSuUod^S  fein. 


MILKING-TIME. 

O  o !  so !  pretty  Brownie,  come  let  it  down  ! 

^^     I'll  give  the  more  milk  to  your  bossy  brown ! 

You  know  well  enough  in  yonder  stall 
Your  bossy's  the  prettiest  boss  of  them  all, 

With  its  dark-brown  coat  and  the  star  on  its  brow. 
What's  this?    You  insist  you  must  lick  it  now? 

There  !    Kiss  your  little  one  ;  now  be  still ! 
Not  yet  can  the  bossy  drink  its  fill ! 

Madame  calls  it  Pollux ;  you  know  the  name  ; 
'Tis  the  Latin  for  Bullock  —  it's  all  the  same! 
57 


dm  Pfluge. 

4jjier  ift  ber  Stcfergrunb  fo  tief  unb  fdjiuer; 
^'  2td)t  £d)feit  sieljeu  einen  ^jl"9  »"t  2)M^e, 

Unb  tüeiß  gefleibet  gel)'n  in  fü{)Ier  j^rül^e, 
3n  Reißer  ®Int^,  ber  2JJann,  bie  ^van,  baljer. 

Äein  S)ung.  @ie  fü^rt,  er  brücft  bie  ^füigid)aar  fe^r  - 
Stuf  ha^  au3  (Erbenfdjoofe  it)r  Äinb  evblül^e, 
©ebiert  im  ^elb  fie,  e^'  ber  Sag  üerglüt)e, 

^ommt  barfuß  mit  bem  Säugling  bann  bal)er. 

(ginft  tvav  bie  S^ad^t  gereift  ic^,  im  ©eraälbe 
SSon  S3aierlanb  ermad^t,  ber  ^eimatt)  su 

glog  ic^  sum  Üv^ein,  gum  2)ZütterIein  in  S3älbe! 
,,3)aB  ic^  in  2)eutfc^Ianb  bin,  ®ott !  jeig'  mir'S  2)u ! 

3tt)ölf  Häuflein  2)ung,  auf  tellergroßem  gelbe, 
3m  Mittel,  pflügt'  ein  2Rann  mit  feiner  Äul)! 
58' 


THE    PLOWING. 

THE  soil  is  here  so  deep  and  hard,  their  might 
Eight  oxen  spend  and  strain  beneath  the  plowing; 
And  here  at  morn  and  when  the  sun  is  glowing, 
The  farmer  and  his  wife  toil,  clad  in  white. 

No  dung.     She  guides,  he  holds  the  plow  down  tight  — 
And  there  her  baby,  like  some  blossom  grov.-ing 
From  Mother  Earth,  is  born.     Barefoot  and  bowing 

Beneath  its  weight,  she  bears  it  home  at  night. 

One  night,  in  the  Bavarian  forest  waking, 
I  journeyed  homeward  hasting  to  the  Rhine, 

Myself  to  my  sweet  mother  swift  betaking. 

"That  this  my  country  is,  God  give  the  sign ! " 

Twelve  heaps  of  dung,  in  frock  a  farmer  breaking 
His  tiny  field  with  plow  and  cow  in  line. 
59 


3m  Klee. 

•it  rotten  Xüdjlmi  im  rotI)en  3JJof)n, 
3iir  3«ittagsnif), 
3)a  nieten  fid^  fic^ernb  im  glüfterton 
®rei  SJiägblein  gu. 

S)er  ^urfd)  bort  brüben  im  anbern  ^etb 

§at  I)ergefel)'n, 
Unb  bre^t  nod)  immer  bie  Slugen  — gelt? 

3m  SBeitergetj'n. 

Unb  fingt  unb  fc^Ienbert  öon  Ungefähr 

9locl)  'mal  öorbei, 
Unb  \ä)ant  öerfto^len  fo  mieber  l)er: 

„'^loij  immer  S)rei!" 

S)ann  fingt  er  lonter  unb  eitt  babon: 

„3d)  get)'  jdjon,  gef)' ! 
©er  i?u!u!  I)oIe  ben  ganjen  Ttoljn 

3m  jd}ijuen  Älee !" 

6o 


IN  CLOVER. 

"1 1  riTH  kerchiefs  red  where  the  poppies  grow, 

In  midday  shades, 
Nod  each  to  other  and  titter  low 
Three  little  maids. 

The  lad  who  yonder  strays  to  and  fro 

Here  casts  his  eye, 
And  ever  he  looks  askance  —  oho  ?  — 

In  passing  by. 

And  sings  and  saunters  past  as  by  chance 

Continually, 
And  sees  with  every  stolen  glance  : 
"  Still  ever  three  !  " 

Then  louder  he  sings  and  away  he  goes, 

"  I'll  be  a  rover  ! 
The  devil  take  each  poppy  that  grows 

In  pretty  clover! " 

6x 


3ult. 

3j|ie  SSIumen^äuptc^en  begrüßen  fic^ 
^  3n  meinem  ©arten  unb  niden; 
Unb  buften  erröt^enb  unb  muffen  ftc^ 
35iel  ![!iebe«boten  f^iden. 

S)ie  armen  S3Iumen!  fte  möd^ten  gem 
(Sinanber  ^järtlii^  umfc^lingen, 

S)rum  fenben  fie  alfo  ben  2)uft  öon  ^ern, 
®ic^  ju  auf  ber  $?üfte  8c^tt)ingen. 

3n  meinem  ©arten  ba  fd)tt)ebt  unb  bebt 
©in  Söunberttjerben  lebenbig; 

3n  meinem  ©arten  ha  fpinnt  unb  tuebt 
S)er  Siebe  geben  befiänbig. 
62 


JULY. 

Jl  yi  Y  garden-flowers,  in  summer  bloom, 
■*      *•    With  common  greetings  are  bending ; 
And  each  to  other,  'mid  blushing  perfume, 
Their  bearers  of  love  are  sending. 

The  poor,  poor  flowers !  they  long  to  share 
With  each  their  tender  embraces ; 

So  send  from  afar,  on  the  wings  of  the  air, 
Their  scents  through  the  garden  spaces. 

There  hovers  and  hangs,  among  the  leaves,, 

A  marvel  that  ceaseth  never ; 
Among  the  leaves  love  spins  and  weaves 

The  strands  of  life  forever. 
63 


£)er  Sämann. 

<\  uffaugt  bic  ®onne  milbe  ben  2)unfl  bcr  feuchten  (Srbc, 
^     3)ie  tief  imb  buftig  tnartet  aufs  neue  @aatemp= 

fangen; 
Äornfc^nitt  unb  ©toppelfeuer  unb  (Srnte  ftnb  oergan= 

gen; 
SSorbei  bent  Untergrunbe  bes  f(!^orfen  'ipflugö  53efc^njcrbe. 

2)er  ©äntann  jd^reitet  einfam   unb    ernft  anf  brauner 
(Srbe  — 
3tt)ei  ^(^ritte,  bann  bie  §onböolt.  .Sein  Räubern  unb 

!ein  33angen; 
S)ie  fleinen  SSi3geI  folgen  unb  ^3icfen  boH  3>ertongen. 
(grftreut;  bod^®ottc§@onnemu^gnäbig  rufen:  „SSerbe!" 

Unb  ob  ber  groft  fie  tobtet,  ob  2)ürre  fte  »eruiertet, 

3m  ^rül)ting§tt)inbe  n^iegenb  bie  §alme  auferftc^en, 

Unb  in  bem  näöiften  §erbfte  ber  törner  @oIb  erfc^ic^tet. 
64 


THE  SOWER. 

BENEATH  the  mild  sun  vanish  the  vapor's  last  wet 
traces, 
And   for   the    autumn   sowing   the    mellow   soil   lies 

steeping  ; 
The  stubble  fires  have  faded  and  ended  is  the  reaping ; 
The  piercing  plow  has  leveled  the  rough  resisting  places. 

The  solitary  sower  along  the  brown  field  paces  — 
Two  steps  and  then  a  handful,   a  rhythmic  motion 

keeping ; 
The   eager  sparrows  follow,   now  pecking  and  now 
peeping. 
He  sows;  but  all  the  increase  accomplished  by  God's 
grace  is. 

And  whether  frost  be  fatal  or  drought  be  devastating, 
The  blades  rise  green  and  slender  for  spring-time 
winds  to  flutter, 
As  time  of  golden  harvest  the  coming  fall  awaiting. 
65 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


(gs  fte^t  tie  fragen  Äeiner,  bic  auf  ben  Sippen  flehen, 
2)te  bangenbcn  ©ebanten,  bie  fc^tnere  (gorge  bici)tet. 
Wlit  fejler  §anb  mu§  jcf)tt)eigenb  burc^'8  gelb  ber  Sä= 
mann  ge^en. 


SO.VGS  OF  TOIL.  67 


None  see  the  silent  yearnings  the  sower's  lips  half 
utter, 
The  carping  care  he  suffers,  distressing  thoughts  cre- 
ating. 
With  steady  hand  he  paces  afield  without  a  mutter. 


Sd^ifferlieb. 

I  ergunter  ge^t'8  im  2)ionbUd&t, 
53ergauf  im  ©ounenbranb; 
S3ergunter  auf  ben  Söeüen, 
SSergauf  im  tiefen  @anb. 

S3ergunter  frei  am  ©teuer, 

2)aS  ^feifd^en  glimmt  im  aJJunb; 
53ergauf  ba  jiel)t,  al8  @oumt^ier, 

Man  S3ruft  unb  Reuben  munb. 

2Öa8  t)ilft  mir'8,  menu  ic^  ^eutc 
2)eg  Stromes  ^önig  bin, 

(Bd\\tiä)'  morgen  16)  at§  ^Bettler 
SSeroc^tet  an  i^m  ^in? 

Um  meine  2uftfa^rt  fdjUeßt  ftc^ 

gurd)Io8  bie  2ßafferftur; 
35om  !euc^enb  tiefen  ©freiten 

S3teibt  long  im  @anb  bie  @pur, 

6S 


THE   BOATMAN'S  SONG. 

"pNOWN  stream  'tis  all  by  moonlight j 
•^■^^     Up  stream  at  blazing  noon, 
Down  stream  upon  the  ripples, 
Up  stream  through  sandy  dune. 

Down  stream,  the  helm  held  loosely, 

A  pipe  between  the  lips ; 
Up  stream,  like  beast  one  straineth 

And  galls  the  breast  and  hips. 

What  boots  it  that  I  seem  like 

The  river's  king  to-day, 
If  to-morrow  like  a  beggar. 

Despised,  I  tug  away  ? 

My  pleasuring  leaves  no  furrow 

Upon  the  water-plam; 
The  marks  of  struggling  footsteps 

Long  in  the  sand  remain. 
69 


<\n  ^oHaub  mar's,  orau  toft  bic  0ec, 
^  ®rau  war  ber  ^immel  brob  tierljangcn, 

Orautnei^  ber  (Stranb  trie  §erbfie8Wc^, 
2)cr  SBinb,  bie  SBeEen  fangen. 

2)ort  !ommt  e8  btutrot^,  fern  Ijeran/ 
(Sin  @eget!  Sluf!  bie  ^if'^^^'  z^raura 

2Bie  3)^0 men  fiürmen  t)er ;  mer  !ann 
2öol)I  feine  ^inf  erfc^auen! 

3luftau(^en  mie  bie  glottc  bic^t 
g?un  33oot  an  35oot  öor  SBottenbaHen, 

2Rit  §offnung€angfl  im  Slngefic^t 
§eran  bie  ^ranen  mallen. 

3n  meinen  Rauben  fJe^n  fie  ba, 
3u  ^unberten  qerei^t  am  ^5tronbe> 

ma  Älnbern^—  Scr  ben  fatten  fa^? 
2Ber  auSblieb  ?  SSel^er  lanbe  ? 


THE  FISHERMAN. 

T  N  Holland  'twas.     The  sea  was  gray, 

And  gray  the  heavy  hanging  heaven ; 
Gray-white  the  shore  with  autumn  spray, 
The  wind  and  waves  gray  even. 

Afar  a  blood- red  cloud  streams  out  — 
A  sail !    The  fishing  trip  is  over ! 

Like  gulls  the  women  flock  about : 
Who  can  her  boat  discover! 

Sail  after  sail  from  out  the  gloom 
Before  the  flaming  cloud  now  passes ; 

Near  rush  the  wan-faced  women  whom 
An  anxious  hope  harasses. 

With  children,  and  with  hooded  head 

In  hundreds  on  the  shore  they're  standing : 

Who  saw  her  spouse  .-*     Which  one  is  dead  .* 
Which  one  will  now  be  landing  ? 


72  SO.VGS  OF    TOIL. 

ein  3leiter  jagt  im  ©(^aum  ba^cr, 
@ein  (Schimmel  gleicht  bem  Oifc^t  bcr  SScUe, 

3fl  jattcllos,  ba§  §aupt  ifl  tecr, 
Unb  barfuß  ber  Oejeüe. 

e«  trieft  üon  SBaffer  fein  ©etüanb, 
Sr  fängt  im  Söurf  bie  fd)rt)eren  (Seile, 

Unb  trägt  fie  üon  be3  ©c^iffeS  9tanb, 
3um  Uferfonb,  in  ßile. 

er  jagt  —  i^m  fliegt  fein  blonbeS  §aar  — 
3m  (Sturm  s"  att  ^cn  braunen  ^infcn, 

Unb  jcigt  bcn  ^arrenben  — 'S  ift  Ilar!  — 
9Kit  einem  rafc^en  Söinfen. 

@ic  fd^rci'n  bie  3a^l  öom  ©c^iff  ^inab, 
er  ^ebt  bie  ginger,  unb  bie  2Bogcn 

SBom  ®aule  fpülen  i^n  l^erab, 
er  f(^tt)ingt  fic^  auf  im  Sogen. 


SONGS  OF   TOIL. 


A  rider  through  the  foam  hastes  there; 

His  steed  is  flecked  with  white  and  yellow, 
His  saddle's  gone,   his  head  is  bare, 
And  bare-foot  is  the  fellow. 

With  water  all  his  clothing  drips ; 

He  casts  the  rope  where  he  would  fain  land 
In  haste  to  drag  them  from  the  ship's 

Deck  forth  upon  the  mainland. 

With  streaming  hair  he  presses  near 
Where  all  the  other  boats  are  beating; 

And  to  those  waiting  signs  —  'tis  clear!  — 
His  one  quick  nod  repeating. 

They  shriek  the  number  of  his  ship  ; 

He  becks  and  'neath  the  billows,  flinging 
Him  from  his  racer,  seems  to  dip, 

Then  on  the  crest  goes  swinging. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


„@(^on  siranjig  2Bo(^cn/'  jprad)  ein  2Bci5, 
,,3ft  fern  mein  Oattc  bort  im  2JJcere." 

S)ic  abutter  nicft  —  ,,3tm  $?eben  bleib' 
3(^,  bis  er  njieberfe^re." 

@iii  ©d^iffS^err  auf  ben  Sfiacfcn  tä§t 
2)em  iungen  2JIann  ftc^  bis  sum  Stranbc ; 

@cin  SBeib  umjd)Ungt  i^n  iaud)5enb  fett; 
@ein  Äinb  tanjt  auf  bem  (5onbe,  — 

Unb  I)aut,  »or  ^^rcube  migerügt, 

2)eu  5?atcr  in  bic  berben  S3eine, 
!J)er  fii^It  eS  nid)t,  erja^It  öergnügt, 

2)em  9l!^ebcr  oon  ber  l!eine. 

S)ic  (Sbbc  föEt,  ba8  leljtc  S3oot 
Äann  tro^  ber  (Sile  nic^t  me^r  tonben. 

«3o/'  fpric^t  ba§  SBeib,  „(Sn  für  *  @tücf  iBwb- 
Unb  fd^eitern  ober  j^ranben!" 


(Jn  für  =  ein  fauer. 


SOXGS   OF    TOIL.  75 

"These  twenty  weeks,"  so  spake  a  wife, 
"  Far  off  my  spouse  has  sailed  the  ocean." 

His  mother  nods:  "I'll  cling  to  life 
Till  he's  here,  with  devotion." 

The  owner  of  the  ship  at  last 

Bears  the  young  man  safe  to  the  strand  there; 
His  wife  shrieks  out  and  holds  him  fast; 

His  child  skips  o'er  the  sand  there. 

He  lets  it  pelt  his  legs  with  shells, 

Unchided  though  behaving  badly, 
Nor  does  he  feel  it  as  he  tells 

About  the  rope  so  gladly. 

The  tide  recedes,  the  last  crew  fail, 

In  spite  of  haste,  at  landing. 
"Yes,"  speaks  the  wife ;  "  His  bread  is  stale, 

His  fate — shipwrecked  or  stranding  I" 


SOJVGS  OF  TOIL. 


2)en  ©äugltng  an  ber  S3ruft,  fo  fte^t 
Unb  l)aiTt  bort  (Sine,  fd^arf  öom  Söinbc 

Umflattert.    SBte  fie  forgfam  bre^t, 
3um  @cf)ul5  bem  tieincn  Äinbe! 

2Kittcibig  fprad)  ic^ :  „§abt  3^r  nocf) 
2)er  Äinbletn  me^r,  luie  biejeS  fdjönc?" 

,,2«ei)r?"  rief  fie  ftolj  unb  ftrecft'  fic^  ^oc^: 
„arjit  bem  ^ab'  id)  etlf  ®üt)ne ! " 

„(Silf  @ö^nc!"  SSie  ein  (gc^rci  entflo^'n 
Sar  neiboott  mir  'ii^^  SSort  üom  9JJunbe; 

®ie  ttjanbten  jtd)  nad)  jenem  Son 
Unb  bvängten  in  bie  9?unbe. 

ein  ©U^ern  in  ber  Singen  ®rau, 

^rug  mid)  ba6  SSeib,  bag  Äinb  am  ^erjcn: 
,,2Bie  oiele  l)abt  benn  3^r,  me  *  ^rau  ?" 

§oc^mütI)ig  Hong's,  mie  ©emergen. 


♦  mc  =  meine. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


With  babe  at  breast  where  winds  sweep  wild. 
There  stands  and  waits  and  stares  another. 

How  turns  to  shield  her  little  child 
That  anxious  loving  mother ! 

"  Pray  hast  thou  "  —  spake  in  pity  I  — 
"  More  children  sweet  as  this  one  even  ? " 

"More?"  called  she  proud,  her  head  raised  high: 
"Of  sons  I  have  eleven." 

•'Eleven  Sons!"  I  shrieked  the  word 

In  envy ;  how  it  did  astound  me  I 
They  turned  then  who  my  cry  had  heard 

And  gathered  close  around  me. 

She  asked — her  eyes  were  gleaming  gray, 
Upon  her  heart  her  babe  was  resting : 

"How  many,  lady,  hast  thou  pray?" — 
It  sounded  like  gay  jesting. 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


SBie  üicl?  @ie  faV«  mic^  an,  S^erfauf 
Unb  SKcer  öergeffcnb,  (Sbb'  unb  ©d^immcl— 

3d^  j^wicg,  ^ob  einen  ginger  ouf 
Unb  beutete  'gen  §immel. 


SO.VGS   OF   TOIL.  79 


How  many  ?  Staring  they  forget  the  sea 
And  trade  and  tide  and  foam-horse  even : 

I  raised  one  finger  silently 

And  pointed  up  toward  heaven. 


Beim  Spinnen. 

Ätin  2JJögblein  fcfitücbt  bat)in  burc^'3  ^elb, 
S)en  grünen  Ärug  anf'ö  §aupt  geficüt, 

2)ie  rotl)e  g^Zeir  im  rott)en  2JJunb, 

2)cr  ?eib  fo  fd)Ian!,  bie  SSrufl  fo  runb; 

®ejd)ür5t  eilt  jte  üon  Rinnen, 
S3cim  ©Pinnen. 

2)ic  Äunfel  i^r  im  ©ürtct  ftedt, 
2öic  nieblid)  fie  baS  §änbc^cn  recft, 
SDie  ©pinbel  tangt  unb  fommt  unb  fliet)t; 
®ie  I)ord)t  Quf'g  SSogelmoienUeb, 
tluf  QÜer  53ärf)Iein  Spinnen, 
S3eim  ®pinnen» 

Km  ??ußbaum  bei  bem  S5runnen  fle^t 

2)er  f(i)lan!e  SSurfd),  unb  tjarrt  unb  fpö^t, 
80 


SPINNING  SONG. 

nPHROUGH  yonder  field  there  fares  a  maid, 

A  water-jar  upon  her  head, 
A  pink  between  her  rosy  lips ; 
Her  form  is  lithe,  and  light  she  trips ; 
She  hastes  away  so  winning. 
While  spinning. 

Her  distaff  from  her  belt  depends  — 
How  simply  she  her  hand  extends  ! 
The  dancing  spindle  flies  along; 
She  listens  to  the  May-bird's  song, 
Or  brooklets  gaily  dinning, 
While  spinning. 

Beneath  the  tree  the  brook  runs  by 
A  tall  lad  stands  and  waits  to  spy; 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


2)er  ®urt  fo  breit,  'to.i  ^ernbe  xoi\% 
2)a«  ^aar  ifi  fc^n)Qrs,  baS  Slugc  \^t\%  — 
iG3a§  lüirb  fie  mm  beginnen 
S5eim  ©Rinnen? 

„Se^t  lauf  mir  nici)t  öorbei  jo  toll! 
§aft  teine  ^anb,  ber  Ärug  ift  öoU; 
S)ie  D^elfe  fle^I'  id)  mir  juerjl, 
Unb  ob  2)u  2)ic^  auc^  bicgft  unb  me^rfl, 
2)en  ^uß  n)ill  id)  geminnen 
53eim  ®pinnen!" 

®ie  fommt  üou  unter'm  S3aum  ^erauS, 
Unb  fte^t  mir  fo  üeränbert  aus  — 
gort  ift  ber  ^inberübermut^, 
2)a§  ^uge  blicft  öoU  tiefer  @Iut^, 
3n  traumoerlornem  ©innen, 
55eim  ©pinnenl 


SONGS  OF  TOIL.  83 


His  chest  is  broad,  his  blouse  is  white, 
His  hair  is  black,  his  eyes  are  bright,  — 
But  what  is  she  beginning 
While  spinning? 

**Now  pass  not  by  so  quick  and  coy; 
The  jar  and  flax  your  hands  employ; 
So  first  I'll  steal  the  pink  away. 
Though  in  defence  you  stand  at  bay, 
A  kiss  you'll  find  me  winning 
While  spinning." 

She  comes  forth  from  beneath  the  tree, 
And  she  appears  so  changed  to  me  — 
Her  childish  confidence  is  dead, 
Her  eye  is  full  of  passion,  fed 
By  thoughts  and  dreams  beginning 
While  spinning. 


JMlr  Ijl  e«  wie  unjcrm  ^crrgott  fa^ 
^""    3n  aU  bem  $Räbergetriebc, 
3(^  ^ab'  an  bem  3cug  fo  tneinc  ?ujl 
Unb  meinc  Siebe  I 

©e^elmnißöoH  ifl  jufammengertci^t/ 
Wtit  ©d^rauben  unb  feilen  unb  ©(Steifen, 

(Sin  ©tog  I  2)ann  ge^t  es  auf  einmal  nic^t, 
Unb  tt)itt  nid)t  greifen  I 

Unb  mü^üoU  fmnt  man  bei  2;ag  unb  9Zac^t, 
SSärc  gem  öor  Merger  geftorbcn, 

2)a  ^at  ein  Xölpd  'ttjaS  b'ran  gemotzt, 
Unb  MeS  öorborben! 

®er  Uljrmod^er  broben  ^at'ö  gut  gefügt, 
Unb  fauber  gef(f)raubt  unb  öerjleret; 

S)ie  2D^enf(f)en  ^aben  nur,  jliUöergnügt, 
(59  ftrocfs  ruiniret. 

84 


THE   CLOCKMAKER'S   SONG. 

T   SEEM  like  the  Lord  himself  in  the  cogs, 

In  the  wheel,  the  spring  and  the  lever; 
My  heart  beats  with  it  as  on  it  jogs, 
And  will  forever, 

'Tis  made  by  a  wondrous  process  in  shops, 

With  screws  and  filing  and  rasping. 
A  shock !  —  Then  on  the  second  it  stops, 

The  cogs  not  clasping. 

The  careworn  maker  thinks  night  and  day 

He's  ready  to  die  of  vexation, 
Because  some  young  blockhead  accomplished  in  plaj 

Its  ruination. 

The  Clock-man  above  is  a  master-hand; 

His  work's  well  fitted  and  polished ; 
But  mortals  delight  to  see  what's  planned 

At  once  demolished! 

8s 


86  SONGS   OF  TOIL. 


2)ann  lommt  ber  2Jieiftcr  unb  mac^t'g  jurec^t; 

^vl6)  fd)mer3t  baS  ^^eiten  unb  Raffen ; 
3^r  fd^rcit  unb  jammert,  baS  2Bcr!  fci  Wt^i, 

S)cr  ©c^tag  jum  Raffen  I 

2)o(^  ttjenn  ba«  U^rwer!  ju  ^nbc  gc'^t, 
2)ann  rcoUt  3^r  öor  Sangen  öcrjagen; 

S)ann  fdiiebt  3f)r  ben  feiger:  „9fJo(^  me^rP  — gu  fpöt: 
@6  ^at  eu(!^  am  fragen ! 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Then  the  maker  comes  and  repairs  it  again; 

You're  pained  by  the  filing  and  fitting; 
The  work  is  miserably  done,  you  complain ; 

You  hate  the  hitting. 

"When  the  clock's  worn  out,  as  decreed  by  fate, 
You'll  hear  the  dreaded  *"Tis  time!" 

You'll  push  the  hands  :  "  Go  on ! "  Too  late  1 
It's  got  you  this  time  I 


Der  ^arbenretber. 

Jler  f leine  garbenreiber  oermißt  fxdf,  o^ne  B^txtn, 
^    'an  feiner  2Jicifier   SSilbern  bic  gel)ler  \6)ax^  ju 

rügen, 
„^ier  alte  Sorben,  3unge!  3)u  foüfl  un8  jum  35cr» 

gnügen 
SfJun  jelber  etiro«  malen,  fiatt  nn§  ju  critiftren." 


Unb  heftig   tl)ut  bie  Scintranb   ber  Änabe   grau   öer« 
fd^mieren: 
,M'm  X^urm   im  Siebet  i|l  bas,   in   unbejiimmten 

3ügen!" 
^o^n  lad^t  er :    „Ofjne  Sifen  !ann  fc^merüc^  einer 
^pgen, 
„3d^  tüitt   mit  fd)lec!^tem  SBerfjeug  nidjt  meine  ^üt 
tierliereu  !" 


THE   COLOR-GRINDER. 

T^HE  little  color-grinder  full  wantonly  was  sneering 
At  all  his   master's  pictures,  their  errors  sharp 
upbraiding. 
"Take  these  old  colors,  youngster;  your  smartness 
cease  parading; 
Do  you  yourself  paint  something,  and   be  not  over- 
bearing." 


The    ardent   boy   his    canvass   with    gray   begins    a- 
smearing : 
"A  tower  that  is,  but  misty,  with   outlines  dim  and 

fading." 
He  scoffs :  "  One  must  have  iron  for  ploughing  and 
for  spading ; 
1  will  not  waste  my  vigor  with  good-for-nothing  gearing." 
89 


90  SO/iGS  OF  TOIL. 


t,^\tx  ^aft  3)u  gute  ^infel  unb  garben  ;  boc^  nun  jclge 
3um  legten  SfJal  2)cm  können."  —  S)a  tt)irb  bcr 

Äünfiler  ujqc^  : 
@r  matt  brei  fleinc  «Sparen,  im  @(^nee  auf  bürrcm 

Biücige. 

2)ic  SRatcr  tommen  fiauncnb :  „2)a8  mac^t  i^m  Äcincr 

nacl) !" 
?für  @oIb  iüarb'8  gleich  er^anbett,  fein  kümmern  ging 

3ur  Steige: 
ffi«  warb  bcr  üeinc  Se^rling  bcr  große  Stc^enbac^. 


SONGS  OF    TOIL. 


"Take  these  new  paints  and  brushes,  and  once  for  all 

redouble 
Your  efforts."     Lo,  the  artist  now  first  is  animate: 
He  paints  three   little   sparrows,  in    snow,  above  the 

stubble.  ' 

The   painters   are  dumbfounded:    "Him   none   can 

imitate  ? " 
It  brought   him   gold   directly,  and   banished    all  his 

trouble : 
That  small   apprentice   lad  became  Achenbach  the 

great. 


23ä(fcrlteb. 

•er  njoüte  tioc^  leben, 
SBenn'ö  iBrob  nic^t  \mx% 
2)eit  Ärug  noc^  ^eben? 
3^n  freut'8  nic^t  nte^rl 

S)ag  gleifdö  trär'  fabe, 

Äein  ÜBein  trär'  fü§, 
Tliv  irär'S  nid^t  fcf)abe 

UmS  ^arabieöl 

S)ort  giebt'8  fein  ^euer 

Äein  Dfen  nid^t, 
S)a  fal^r'  ic^  treuer 

3ur  ^öUe  f(^Ud^t, 

Unb  Ijole  täglich 

Tlnn  S3rob  ^erauS. 
©8  fiel)t  boc^  fläglid^ 

3m  ^immcl  au§! 


THE   BAKER'S    SONG. 

WHO'D  live  on  with  pleasure 
That  had  no  bread? 
Or  drain  his  measure? 
His  joy'd  be  dead  1 

There'd  be  no  savor 

In  meat  or  wine; 
I'd  scorn  the  flavor 

Of  things  divine. 

No  fire's  up  yonder, 

No  oven  for  dough, 
So  quick  I'd  wander 

To  hell  below. 

And  daily  I"d  fetch  it  — 

My  batch  of  bread  — 
My  outlook  how  wretched 

In  Heaven  instead! 

93 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Unb  ptt'  eine  Äronc 

Unb  ©cepter  id), 
Unb  gäb'8  auf  bcm  S^rone 

Äeiit  35rob  für  micf)  — 

3fc^  ging  als  Söanb'rec 

2)aoon,  allein; 
(58  fott  ein  2tnbrer 

$ier  Äönig  fein! 

SSie  buftet'8  eben  — 
3^r  SBangen  rot^! 

2)08  S3rob  joE  leben, 
2)a8  liebe  Srobl 


SONGS   OF    TOIL.  95 

Were  crown  to  me  given, 

And  scepter  beside. 
Were  a  throne  mine,  even, 

And  bread  denied, 

I'd  flee,  ever  straying 

Afar,  alone. 
Another  here  swaying 

Upon  my  throne. 

The  sweet  smell  of  thee  I 

Thy  cheeks  how  red ! 
O  Bread,  I  love  thee! 

So,  long  live  Bread! 


Sctlerltcb. 

fie'«  ©pinnlein  nel)m'  id^  oom  Scibc 
2)en  §anf  f)erau8, 
Xoij  mein  ©efc^äft  ic^  betreibe 
mt  Sffobgcbraug. 

2Bie  @pinmreb*  foHen  bic  ©cite 

'®en  ^immel  fte^'n, 
S)oc^  joHen  in  @turme8eite 

2)'rauf  2}ienfd^en  ge^'n. 

S)'ran  foUen  fte  fdjroeben  unb  fangen, 

S}om  2J?eer  bebrol)t; 
S)'ran  follen  fte  beten  unb  bangen, 

3n  2^obegnot^. 

2)ort  werben  fie  Iad)en  unb  pfeifen 

2)em  Ccean, 

2)a  §uugerid)recfeu  mic^  greifen— 

'JlRidi  armen  2)^annl 
96 


THE   ROPE-MAKER'S  SONG. 

T    LIKE  the  spiders  a  spinning, 

?     My  hemp  play  out ; 
But  I  work  with  the  dinning 
Of  wheels  about. 

My  cords,  like  webs  toward  Heaven, 

Shall  stand  sublime; 
Yet  there  in  tempests  even 

Shall  sailors  climb. 

And  there  they'll  hover  and  quiver, 

Nor  mind  the  roar; 
And  there  they'll  pray  and  shiver 

By  death's  cold  shore. 

They'll  laugh  and  scoff  at  the  booming 

Made  by  the  sea, 
The  dread  of  hunger  consuming 

Poor  wretched  me! 

97 


tTöpferltcb. 

^d^hJirr  ®u  im  Greife  I 
^  (Swig  bie  Steife, 

2)re^  bod^! 
Stimmer  gu  raften, 
ewig  gu  l^afien— 

®e^  bod|I 
Unten  I)in  tret'  id^, 
Oben  I)in  fnet'  ic^ 

2)rel)  2)oc^! 
5ßic  borffl  2)n  matt  fein, 
SRic  barffl  !J)n  jatt  fein— 

@e^  bod)I 
2öa8  hjir  aud^  lod^en, 
Solb  h)irb'«  jerbroc^en — 

2)rc^  boc^ ! 

Srinfen  hjirb's  nimmer, 

©urpen  nur  fd^timmcr— 

@e^  bod^I 
98 


THE   POTTER'S   SONG. 

T^  OUND  thou  art  wendingi 
^     Never  an  ending! 

Twirl  on! 
No  time  wasting, 
Ever  hasting, 

Whirl  on! 
Under  treading, 
Over  kneading  — 

Twirl  on ! 
Never  dare  weary, 
Always  be  cheery. 

Whirl  on! 
Though  we  may  make  it, 
Some  one  will  break  it  — 

Twirl  on  ! 
Though  it  drinks  never, 
Thirsteth  it  ever  — 

Whirl  on! 

49 


SONGS  OF   TOIL. 


S)idj  joE  fie  jd)near 
Strogen  gur  CueHc  — 

2)re^  bocf)! 
2)ir  öon  3Jiunb  nippen 
SBillige  lOippen  — 

©el^  boc^l 
2)q9  man  tie  Ärügc 
5iae  serfcfilugc ! 

2)rel^  bod)! 
SBoüt  i^r  ben  §aufen 
einzeln  öerfaufenl 

®e^  bod)! 
2)ie8  für  ein  Äü^c^en, 
2)rei  für  bie  güBd)en  — 

S)re^  boc^! 
Unb  für  bie  2)ictcn 
SJiufet  fie  erftid en ! 

@e^  bod^! 


SOiVGS  OF   TOIL. 


Thee  shall  she  carry 
Springward,  and  tarry  ^ 

Twirl  on ! 
Lipping  with  kisses 
Ware  such  as  this  is  — 

Whirl  on! 
Till  we  just  take  it. 
Jealous,  and  break  it. 

Twirl  on  ! 
Gladly  we'd  sell  her 
All  and  then  tell  her  — 

Whirl  on! 
This  for  a  kiss,  now, 
Those  three  for  this,  now, 

Twirl  on  ! 
And  for  this  other 
Must  she  just  smother  — 

Whirl  on! 


Xrtofatk. 

cncbig  träumt.    2)ic  2Karfu«ftrd^c  breitet 
2)te  golb'nc  jDämm'rung  über  2ßunber|d)Q^c; 
2ll8  ob  er  fid)  an  joöiel  ®^ön^eit  te^e, 
®tiel)lt  ftc^  ein  @onnenftraI)I  l)erab  unb  gleitet 

S)ort  S^rifti  §aupt  entlang,  unb  bebt  unb  fc^veitet 
§in,  ob  bem  SSoben,  in  bie  alten  ^lö^e, 
2)a8  S^orftnl^I^oIj  öergolbenb,  b'rein  fic^  je^e 

2)er  Reiten  SJJojeftät,  öon  ©Ott  geleitet. 

Unb  aW  bie  ^rac^t  lommt  au8  ber  fc^maten  Äammer; 

S)arein  ein  äJJenfd^  ber  farb'gen  ©pUtter  ©leiten 
2)^üt)jam  äufommentegt  mit  ming'ger  Älommer, 

S)er  grüne  @d^irm  becft  unterm  §aar,  bem  meinen, 
2)er  Singen  fd^minbenb  ?ic^t.  2BaS  tl)ut  ber  Kammer? 
2)08  SBerl  ift  en^ig  —  ®ott  ^at'8  gut  geheißen ! 


MOSAIC. 

'T^HE  island  city  sleeps.     The  twilight  rideth 

Gold-shod  above  San  Marco's  treasure-plunder; 
As  if  it  would  enjoy  this  golden  wonder, 
A  sunbeam   stealeth  in  and  softly  glideth 

Along  Christ's  head  and  trembleth  there  and  strideth 
To  earth  where  columns  cut  the  light  asunder ; 
It  gildeth,  sent  of  God,  the  choir,  where,  under 

The  dome,  the  glory  of  the  ages  bideth. 

High  in  an  attic  room  this  decoration 

In  splendor  wakens,  where  a  man,  deft-handed, 
Sets  tiny  bits  of  bright  illumination  — 

To  shield  his  fading  sight,  his  white   locks  banded 
With  a  green  shade.  —  What  profits  lamentation? 
The  work's  eternal  —  God  hath  so  commanded  ! 

103 


Cape5tcrer. 

(Srumm^or.) 

Jlen  SUiunb  ooU  S^äget 
^  2Bie  fingt  man  ba? 
3n  @toff  öergraben 
2Bie  flingt  c8  ba? 

SSalb  na^  ber  Secfc, 
©ebiicft  auf  Anten, 

S3ie  reicfjt  ber  Xcppic^, 
SSerrüdt  gu  siel)n. 

3)en  fc^önen  S)amen, 
@o  reif  unb  jart, 

3ft  gutes  ^otftcr 
9^ur  fteif  unb  l)art. 

Unb  tief  oerliängen 
2)er  @rf)cibe  l?ic^t, 

SD^ian  jeigt  fein  5lntU^ 
^ei  Seibe  nid)t ! 


THE  UPHOLSTERER. 

(A  Muttering  Chorus.) 

-I  T  7HO  could,  his  mouth  full 

"^     Of  tac  s,  still  sing? 
Thus  deep  in  drapery 
A  bell  couldn't  ring! 

It  almost  reaches; 

Come,  kneel,  my  lad 
And  stretch  the  carpet; 

Now  tug  like  mad! 

Fastidious  ladies 

Declare  the  stuff 
On  this  fine  cushion 

Too  stiff  and  rough. 

These  window-hangings 

Come  down  so  far 
They  let  no  passer 

See  who  you  are. 
105 


io6  SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


SSSäft  3f)r  noc^  toiler 

SBon  ßitelfeit, 
S)a8  mac^t  bem  ^anbtrerf 

S)en  SSeutcl  hjcit. 

SBottt  3^r  oer^üüen 
2)en  «Serein  ber  3a^r, 

2)a8  giebt  mir  Äleiber 
2)er  fleinen  @c^aar. 

Unb  ireil  3^r  ru^et 
®o  iDcic^  unb  hjarm, 

@inb  SBänf  in  ©c^uleu 
gür  9lei(^  unb  %xm\ 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Were  you  still  wilder 

With  vanity, 
'Twould  fill  the  pockets 

Of  such  as  we. 

If  asked  to  refurbish 
The  wear  of  years, 

It  gives  me  clothes  for 
My  little  dears. 

Eecause  you're  resting 

At  ease,  secure, 
We  have  school-benches 

For  rich  and  poor. 


Pergolber. 

3[|Q  fe^t  mir  nur  bie  Seute  an  — 
^  SSie  unban!bar! 
2)cr  SRcmbranbt  h)ar  ein  braöer  Tlann, 
2)ag  ift  h)o^t  toaljxl 

!J)er  SRubcnS  njar  ja  ouc^  nic^t  faul  — 

S)ic  3cit  bcbacf)t ! 
Unb  2Boun)en?iann  ^at  mancten  (Saul 

3?ecl^t  bra»  gcmad)t! 

©ana  fauber  ^at  3iJ2uriUo  ja 

Unb  9ieufd)  gemalt; 
2)0(^  rt)enn  man  2J?atart'S  greife  fa^~ 

^tiit  \diUd)t  bejat)!!!  — 

2)od^  fagt:  So  blieb  end)  ber  effeft? 

3cl^  mein  ben  ^cf)arm! 
2)cr  ift  im  3?oI)meu  b'rin  berf^ccft, 

Sm  ©olbton  »arm. 

io8 


THE    GILDER. 

TUST  look  now  at  the  public  once  — 
A  thankless  crew! 
That  Rembrandt  was  no  simple  dunce. 
Indeed  is  true. 

And  Rubens  painted  far  from  ill  — 

For  that  dull  age! 
And  Wouwermann's  fine  horses  still 

Are  quite  the  rage. 

Murin o  painted  soberly 

And  Reusch  as  well; 
But  if  you  Makart's  prices  see  — 

How  poor  they  sell !  — 

You  say:  Wherein  lies  your  effect? 

The  charm  alone 

Is  in  the  frame  with  which  it's  decked - 

Its  warm  gold  tone. 
109 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


2)ic  gangen  SD^ater  fmb  crji  'raoS, 

S5in  ic^  babeil 
2)em  9iap^aet  ginget,  o^ne  ®pa§, 

3^r  !alt  öorbei, 

§ielt  cr  ni^t  jc^ijn  im  $Ra^men  jtc^ ! 

Hn  ®oIb  gebricfjt'g: 
2)ic  größten  ^ünf^Ier  o^ne  ntic^ 

©inb  atte  3^ic^t8! 


SOXGS  OF  TOIL. 


If  aught  of  any  painter  's  heard, 

Lo,  there  am  I! 
You'd  pass  —  this  is  no  idle  word- 

The  Raphaels  by, 

Unless  they  were  set  off  by  me 

In  frames  like  these ; 
The  greatest  artists  else  would  be 

Nonentities ! 


^ 


gimmermaler. 

18  ttjcnn  jic  mir  angemac^fen  hJör', 
®o  tranbr  ic^  mit  meiner  Mter  einher, 
Unb  ftnge! 


Unb  maV  (Sud)  reid^e  färben  hinein, 
iKit  fatten  ®d^atten  unb  ©olbton  fein, 
Unb  ftngc! 

S)a«  fliegt  mir  5lUe8  fo  au8  ber  §anb, 
5tn  .^'o^sgctäfel,  Stltjambramanb, 
S3eim  @ingen! 

®a§  Jnirb  gang  fiinftlerifd^  fein  geftimmt, 
§ier  ctroag  fälter,  ba^  bort  c8  glimmt, 
SSeim  (Singen! 

S)ie  ^raftifc^en  I)aben  gefdjimpft,  gelocht, 
©efenfst,  ta^  2uju8  inS  $?eben  gebracht  — 
S)rum  ftng  ic^! 


A 


THE  PAINTER. 

S  though  to  my  back  it  had  chanced  to  grow, 
I  carry  my  ladder  wherever  I  go, 
And  sing ! 


I  paint  for  you  colors  as  rich  as  made, 

With  a  fine  gold  tone  and  just  the  right  shade, 

And  sing ! 

With  a  twist  of  the  wrist  I  accomplish  it  all  — 
A  wainscoting  or  an  Alhambra  wall  — 
While  singing ! 

'Twill  be  well  toned  and  artistic,  you  know. 
Here  a  little  bit  cold,  so  that  there  it  may  glow 
While  I  sing! 

The  Old  School  has  scoffed  and  sighed  at  the  thought 
That  luxury  into  life  has  been  brought  — 
I  sing ! 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


SSicr  !al)Ic  Sßänbe  unb  b'rin  ein  2od^ 
3ii  auc^  ein  3ittTmer  unb  cinfacf)  bod^ 
3um  33rummen! 


SONGS  OF   TOIL. 


Four  naked  walls  with  a  hole  for  a  door 
Make  a  room,  'tis  true;  and  simple,  what's  more  — 
For  growling ! 


Der  Canbbriefträger» 

i|t8  tl)out.    2)er  ©c^nee  baut  braun  ftc^  auf  ©robcti, 
%t\b  unb  Sßegen, 
es  trieft  bie  SSogelbeere,  ber  «Sd^tamm  ift  tief  unb 

treid^, 
3)ic  SBoIfen  Rängen  bleiern,  ber  2lbenbf(^ein  ift  bleich, 
©8  glänjt  h)ie  S3o(^e§bettc  boS  i?ic^t  auf  allen  ©tegen. 

Unb  einfam  auf  ber  ©trage  ftapft  bort  ein  mü^fam 
Siegen, 
(S8  ^inft  ber  SSote  frierenb,  bie  Xa]dft  ft^eint  nid^t 

reic^  — 
(Sin  armer  ißrief  an  Slrme,  öerfrumpelt,  alt  —  ganj 
gtei4 
gr  muß  an'8  i^itl    2)er  SBote  ^inft  müb'  bem  S)orf 
entgegen- 

er  ^od^t.    S)a  öffnet  jd^üd^tern  ein  IKütterc^en:  „5m 
?eben 

xi6 


THE    COUNTRY    LETTER-CARRIER. 

TT  thaws.     On  field  and  roadway  the  packing  drifts 
have  faded; 
The  service-berry  drips  and  the  slush    is    deep  and 

stale ; 
The  clouds  hang  low  and  leaden ;  the  evening  glow 
is  pale; 
The  paths    gleam    like   a   brooklet  whose   bed   is  all 
unshaded. 

Along  the  highway  trudges  a  messenger;  unaided 
He   limps   and    halts    and   shivers ;    his    bag    holds 

little  mail  — 
A  single  wretched  letter  all  crumpled,  old,  and  frail  — 
He  must  push    on ;   the  village    he    nears   now,   lame 
and  jaded. 

He  knocks.     A  timid  woman  admits  him:  "Till  now. 
never 

H7 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


®d)reibt  Reiner  mir?    O  ^immeU    9}Jein  @o!^u! 
®ieb  eilcnb«  !^cr! 
er  !ommt!    UnS   ifl   geholfen!"     2)ie    alten   §änbe 
beben  — 

„2)u  ©ottegbote !  nä^er,  fc^'  S)ic^  gur  ^^i^tt^inc  ^cr, 
3d)  ttitU  bon  meinem  Sieic^t^um  2)ir  2)einen  Hnt^cil 

geben." 
2)cr  arme  $?anbbricfträger  ^at  warm  unb  ^in!t  n\6)t 

me^r. 


SOA'GS   OF    TOIL.  119 

Had  I    a  letter  1    Heavens!    My  boy!    Quick,  give 

it  here! 
He's  coming!  Now  we're  happy!"  Her  aged  muscles 
quiver  — 

"God  sent  you    here.     Be    seated   and  warm   your- 
self:   Come  near; 
A  share  of  my  possessions  are  yours  to  keep  forever." 
The    postman    limps    no    longer,    warmed    by    the 
woman's  cheer. 


Der  Sanbträgcr. 

]^Qnb!    ®anb!    @anb!    @anb! 
^  3^  bin  jo  müb',  3t)r  $!eut! 
^at  deiner  ©onb  geftreut 
S)en  gansen,  langen,  falten  2;ag, 
S)a  froftjitternb  ic^  ftanb 
Unb  $'aften  trag'! 

<Sanb!    @anb!   @anb!   @anbl 
(Sg  fmb  no(^  fünf  gu  §aug; 
S)ie  abutter  bie  f(i)afft  b'rau«; 
S)ann  trcinen  fie,  bie  üeinen  Äinb', 
Sßeil  fie  mid)  au^gefanbt, 
Unb  ^nngrlg  fmb. 

©anb!  @anb!  ©onb!  ®anb! 
2)ort  liegt  bag  53rob  gu  §auf! 
2)afe  tc^  nur  eines  !auf', 


THE    SAND-CARRIER. 

QAND!    Sand!    Sand!    Sand! 
^^  Good  Sirs,  I'm  almost  dead, 
For  no  one  sand  has  spread 
The  live-long  day,  so  cold  and  drear 
That  'neath  my  load  I  stand 
And  shiver  here. 

Sand!    Sand!    Sand!    Sand! 
Five  more  at  home  there  are. 
While  Mother  toils  afar, 
The  little  ones,  who  let  me  go 
With  naught  to  eat  at  hand, 
Are  weeping  so ! 

Sand  !    Sand !    Sand !    Sand  ! 
There  bread  in  heaps  doth  lie ; 
That  I  one  loaf  may  buy 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


@o  nimmt  3^r  ücut'  ben  @anb  mir  ab, 
SBeit  id^  fo  tueit  gerannt 
Unb  junger  ^ab! 

®onb !    @anb  !    ®anb !    ®anb ! 
2)er  5lbenb  bricht  l)crein; 
9^un  friert  t%  @tein  unb  S3ein; 
2)0^  ^eim  \^  nimmer  ge^cn  fann, 
@ic  l^arren  unoertt)anbt 
Unb  f(i)au'n  mic^  an! 

®anb!   «Sanb!   @anb!   (Sanb! 

2)a0  kleine  joud^5t  unb  lac^t: 

„2Ba8  ^aft  2:u  mitgebrad)t?" 

!J)ie  SJintter  n^eint  unb  fagt  fein  2Bort, 

^m  falten  ^eerbeSranb  — 

2)onn  fc^Ieicf)'  i^  fort. 

<Sanb!   @anb!   @anb!   @anb! 
S)ie  2:^räne  friert  gu  Si8, 
3c^  ruf  eg  nocf)  ganj  lets', 


SONGS  OF   TOIL. 


Do  take  my  sand,  so  kind  you  are, 
For  I'm  so  hungry  and 
I've  trudged  so  far. 

Sand !    Sand !    Sand !    Sand  I 
The  daylight  now  has  flown, 
Now  freezes  stone  and  bone ; 
But  home  poor  I  can  never  flee; 
For  those  there  still  do  stand 
And  gaze  at  me. 

Sand  I    Sand !    Sand  !    Sand  I 
My  child  shouts  out  with  joy: 
"What  have  you  brought  your  boy?' 
His  mother  weeps  —  she  cannot  say 
At  the  cold  hearth-stone  and  — 
I  steal  away ! 

Sand  !    Sand  !    Sand !    Sand  ! 
My  tears  freeze  like  the  snow.* 
My  call  is  now  quite  low. 


SONGS  OF  TO  TL. 


Sic  Käufer  locfen  ^ell  unb  tt)ann, 
2)od^  Öffnet  feine  §onb  — 
S)ort  tt)inft  ein  3lrml 
@anb!   ®anb !   ©anb!   @anb! 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


The  houses  gleam  with  welcome  warm, 
But  opens  no  kind  hand  — 

There  waves  an  arm ! 
Sand!    Sand!    Sand!    Sand! 


Die  Sd^euerfrau. 

Penn'«  nur  nid^t  (S^rijlabenb  War', 
Unb  gar  fo  öiel  iio^Uv, 
Unb  qE'  bie  Xifc^e  \o  \6:itotx, 
@o  fro^  bie  Oefic^ter. 

Sßär'g  nic^t  jo  troftloS  ju^au«, 

Unb  raiirben  nic^t  weinen 
Unb  »erlangten  ni(f)t  \o  l^inauS 

2)ie  Ijungernben  kleinen, 

Unb  it)re  SBänglein  jo  j(^mal, 
2)ie  ^eut'  9fZid)t8  jum  (Sffen 

SBenn  bie  nur  at)nten  bie  Ciual 
S)ie  ^eut'  mid)  oergejjen! 

25o(^  ic^  !ommc  gu  leijc  herein, 
3um  fd^muts'gen  ©ejd^äftc 

Unb  ücrbrouc^e  bei  2)ämmerj(^ein 
2)ie  f c^roinbenben  Äräftc. 
126 


THE   CHARWOMAN. 

TF  only  'twere  not  Christmas  Eve, 

Nor  bright  other  places, 
Nor  loaded  the  boards  I  perceive, 
Nor  happy  the  faces, 

And  not  so  wretched  at  home, 
And  none  of  this  whining 

And  begging  for  bread  when  I  come 
By  little  cheeks  pining 

To-day  for  hunger  again, 

To  deeply  depress  me  ! 
If  they,  who  forget  now  my  pain, 

Could  see  it  distress  me ! 

Too  listlessly  come  I  and  go; 

All  dirty  I  never 

Must  faint  in  the  twilight  glow 

But  toil  on  forever. 
127 


m8  songs   of  toil. 

2J?ir  fmb  bie  (Sec^je  gu  fc^mer, 

2)ic  bleichen  ©efic^tcr ! 
SBcnn'S  nur  nic^t  d^riflabenb  tuar', 

Unb  oUc  bic  lOic^tcr! 


SONGS  OF  TOIL. 


Six  children  I  have  to  relieve  — 
How  blanched  are  their  faces ! 

If  only  'twere  not  Christmas  Eve, 
Nor  bright  other  places ! 


Der  Bläfer. 

it  meinem  §au^  in  rotI)e  ©lutf), 
Tlit  2lug'  nnb  §anb  in  i^^ammcntün^ 
33106!   S3IaS! 


Unb  tt»o8  3^r  füllt  unb  fmgenb  leert 
^at  mir  baS  Jebenömarf  öerje^rt: 
®Iq8!    ©las! 

3^  fetj'  CS  tjor  eu(^  an  ben  SJJnnb 
Unb  f(f)tt)ing*  c«  ^od^  im  Greife  runb  - 
S3IagI   «las! 

Unb  h3a8  mein  letter  ^auc^  gemocht, 
3^r  fd^logt'g  entjnjei  unb  fmgt  unb  lac^t' 
®IaS!    ©las! 

Unb  bei  ber  meinen  flammen  (Schein 

2)enr  i(^  ber  flcinen  Äinber  mein  — 

SBIaS!   S3IaS! 
130 


THE   GLASS-BLOWER. 

T   BREATHE  into  the  red-hot  heat; 
My  eye  and  hand  its  fury  meet  — 
Blow!    Blow! 

The  glass  you  fill  and  singing  drain 
Has  sapped  my  life  and  might  amain  — 
Glass!    Glass! 

I'm  first  to  put  my  lips  to  it  there 
And  swing  it  circling  high  in  air  — 
Blow !    Blow ! 

My  last  breath  makes  the  very  thing 
You  break  in  two,  then  laugh  and  sing 
Glass!    Glass! 

Now  softly  by  the  white-hot  flame 
I  call  my  children  each  by  name  — 
Blow !    Blow ! 


132  SONGS  OF   TOIL. 


S)ie  ®tut^  h)irb  Mi,  balb  Ucg'  ic^  bort, 

SJian  fegt  tnid^  mit  ben  ©d^crbcn  fort  — 

©las!   ®la8l 


SONGS  OF   TOIL. 


The  fire  grows  cold;  I'll  die,  no  doubt' 
With  broken  glass  they'll  sweep  me  out  — 
Glass!    Glass! 


^m  IDcbftuf^I. 

^m  blüt^etreißen  §emb  unb  rot^em  Üiocfe, 
^  3nt  ©deleter,  ber  jur  Srbe  itieberffteßt, 

3)a8  Sd^iffc^en  jagenb,  ba§  irie'S  9JJäu§Iem  j(i)ieOt, 
S)ie  fleine  §anb  jo  fejl  am  langen  «Stocfe, 

SBcbt  @pinngett)eb  au8  eigner  ©eibenflocfe 
2)ie  fd^öne  53äuerin.    ©ie  Iäcf)ett,  gießt 
(Sin  fc^elmifcf)  33U(fen  auf  i^r  tinb,  baQ  jd)Ue6t 

S5erf(i)ämt  bie  SSimper,  unter  bunüer  !?o(fe. 

Unb  übermütt)ig  fc^aut  ber  S8nx\6)  t)erein: 

„"ä^a,  ba^  ttjirb  für  meine  S3rout  ber  ©deleter !" 
©tin  bcn!t  bie  äJJuttcr  an  be«  35ater8  grei'n, 

S5or  fünf;;e^n  3a^ren!  on  ben  ^er^jengfcf^rein 

^oc^t  iuft  bag  D^eunte!  —  „%dj,  bie  alte  Fleier! 
Sc^  taufe  nod)!   2)er  Äu!u!  ^ol'  bie  greier!" 


THE   WEAVER. 

T  N  scarlet  gown  and  blouse  like  lily-flower 
And  flowing  veil,  a  peasant  woman  tends 
The  shuttle,  darting  like  a  mouse.    She  lends 
To  the  long  beam  her  little  hand's  full  power 

To  spin  a  web  from  silken  floss.     One  dower 

She  has  —  her  beauty.    How  she  laughs  and  sends 
A  roguish  twinkle  to  her  child,  that  bends 

At  every  glance  its  shame-faced  head  the  lower ! 

Her  forward  boy  looks  in,  exclaiming  low: 

"Aha,  my  bride  shall  wear  that  long  veil  of  hers!" 
The  mother  muses  on  her  husband's  vow 

Just  fifteen  years  ago :  "  The  ninth  child  now  — 
The  old,  old  tale  1  —  beneath  my  heart's  shrine  hovers. 
m  christen  more.  —  The  devil  take  the  lovers  I " 
135 


Dtamantenfc^Ieifcr. 

|jjJ.c^on  breißig  3Q^r  an  einem  3lab 
^  Sn  S5Iei  jenf  \^  ben  ©tein, 
Sis  er  bie  feinflen  Äanten  l^at 
Unb  geucrglut^  barein. 

2)a8  i^euer  qu8  bem  erbenfc^Iunb, 
®a8  Reiner  norfigcmadit; 

2)a8  geuer,  boS  im  5lugengrunb, 
9^ur  ?ieb'  unb  §a§  entfacht. 

S)q8  blitjt  mid^  jo  ge^eimnißüoll 

Unb  jo  üerlocfenb  an, 
2Ba8  U(f)tIog  aus  ber  Siefc  quoH; 

Sc^  bin  ber  ^^ubrer  bann, 

2)urd^  bcffcn  ^anb  bic  Äoijcrin 

erji  ftra^Ienb  rei^  gejc^miidt  — 

2)a8  9?einfte,  l^o^e  ^errjd)erin, 

2lu8  9iu§  unb  (Staub  gebrüdt 
136 


THE   DIAMOND-POLISHER. 

'T^HESE  thirty  years  upon  a  wheel 

I  sink  the  stone  in  lead, 

'Till  finest  cuts  at  last  reveal 

The  deep  fire's  golden-red ! 

Those  flames  from  out  the  earth's  abyss 

No  one  can  imitate ; 
The  flames,  that  beauty's  eyelids  kiss, 

Are  fanned  by  love  or  hate. 

Mysteriously  on  me,  who  hang 
Spell-bound,    its  colors  shine; 

For  rayless  from  the  earth  it  sprang; 
The  magic  art  is  mine 

Through  which  the  mistresses  of  thrones 

Are  dazzlingly  arrayed  — 
But,  noble  dames,  the  purest  stones 

Of  soot  and  dust  are  made ! 

137 


Der  (getgenmac^er. 

•ir  träumte,  ta^  bie  (Sngel 
3m  ^t)or  ^erniebergefd^mebt 
3n  meine  üeinc  SSerfftatt  — 
SSor  ©lud  ^ab'  i(f|  gebebt! 

@ie  normen  bic  ©eigen  alle 
§erab,  njie  931umen  gefc^oart, 

SBegannen  ein  tremulieren 
SBic  5leol§^arfen  jart. 

S)ann  jc^moü  e8  bis  gum  S3raufen, 

^nx  SubelfQmp^onie, 
Unb  |c^Iud)5te  klagen  basttJifc^en  — 

@o  weinen  SJJenfc^en  nie! 

e«  mar  ber  ©paaren  Sauc^gen, 

(gg  mar  ber  SBelten  ?cib; 

Unb  läd^elnb  fpielten  bie  (Sngel 

SBie  Äinber  im  ®tra^Ien!(eib. 
138 


THE  VIOLIN-MAKER. 

T  DREAMED  a  chorus  of  angels 

Came  down  one  night  to  me 
Within  my  little  workshop  — 
I  trembled  with  ecstasy! 

They  took  the  violins  to  them, 
As  children  the  flowers  they  find ; 

They  began  an  aeolian  quaver 

As  soft  as  the  sound  of  the  wind. 

And  then  to  a  sjmiphony  swelling, 
To  a  burst  of  joy  did  it  grow; 

But  between  I  heard  a  sobbing  — 
Ah,  never  do  men  weep  so! 

The  spheres  were  singing  with  triumph, 
The  worlds  were  sobbing  with  woe ; 

The  angels  were  laughing  and  playing 
Like  children  with  raiment  aglow. 


SONGS  OF  l^OIL. 


9?un  foHt  3^r  mic^  betten  unb  legen; 
3ßir  njirb  ber  ®arg  nid^t  jc^ttier; 
I  !ann  bic  ©eigen  nid^t  l^ören 
SSon  2JJenfc^enl)änbeu  mc^rl 


SOJ^GS   OF    TOIL. 


Come,  take  me  now  to  the  graveyard; 

No  longer  the  coffin  I  fear; 
The  violin-playing  of  mortals 

I  never  again  can  hearl 


Stetnfc^nctbcr. 

fir  jagen,  jögen,  fügen  ^in  unb  ^er, 
S^agauS,  tagein,  jahrein,  ja^rau«, 
3n  ©onnenbronb  unb  ®turmgebrau3, 
Unb  langfam  fteigt  ta&  ©ottes^au«  — 
SQSir  fe'^en'8  nimmermefir ! 

2öir  jagen,  fägen,  jagen  ^er  unb  ^in . 
Sie  (Sonne  ftic^t,  baä  SBafjer  gijdEjt, 
2)er  5lugen  Äraft  in  ©taub  erlijc^t, 
Unb  unjer  ^am*  in  ©taub  öerwifc^t  - 

Äein  SRu^m  unb  fein  Oeminn! 

2öir  jagen,  jögen,  jagen  immer  nod) ! 
35u  lieber  @ott  im  himmelblau, 
«Sie^jl  jebcn  (Stein  2)u  tüolji  genau, 
S)ic  armen  ?eut'  an  2)einem  S3au, 

2)ie  9^icmanb  achtet  boc^? 


THE   STOXE-CUTTER. 

*\1  7E  hammer,  hammer,    hammer  on  and  on, 
Day-out,  day-in,  throughout  the  year, 

In  blazing  heat  and  tempests  drear; 

God's  house  we  slowly  heavenward  rear  — 
We'll  never  see  it  done! 

We  hammer,  hammer,  hammer,  might  and  main. 
The  sun  torments,    the  rain-drops  prick, 
Our  eyes  grow  blind  with  dust  so  thick ; 
Our  name  in  dust,  too,  fadeth  quick  — 

No  glory  and  no  gain  ! 

We  hammer,  hammer,  hammer  ever  on. 
O  blessed  God  on  Heaven's  throne, 
Dost  thou  take  care  of  every  stone 
And  leave  the  toiling  poor  alone. 

Whom  no  one  looks  upon? 
«43 


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